


Recipe for Disaster

by Atypical16



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Arts, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts, Horcruxes, Manipulative Relationship, Mayhem, Mentor/Protégé, Mild Sexual Content, Ministry of Magic, Murder, POV Multiple, Professor Tom Riddle, Ravenclaws & Slytherins, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, like serious manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 114,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9559742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypical16/pseuds/Atypical16
Summary: Welcome to 1947: Gellert Grindelwald has been defeated, Albus Dumbledore is dead, and Tom Riddle is hired for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts. It all goes downhill from there.





	1. Spring 1947

**Author's Note:**

> So this is obviously AU deviating in 1945, but I do try to keep elements and characters true to canon. This is about the influence of MY Golden Trio - Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Voldemort - in the 1940s. 
> 
> Feedback is the bee's knees, but most importantly...enjoy!

Although it was March, a raging blizzard was sweeping through the city. People only went outdoors if they had to, hurrying through their errands to get back into the relative warmth of their homes. 

For the three remaining members of the Magic Army, there was no heat and the dilapidated, bomb-dusty flat in a collapsed building was not their home. Alexander McElroy, Sergei Dolohov, and Jakub Paweza could not return to their homes, ever. They were all wanted for the murder of Albus Dumbledore. 

The three young men sat on the mottled wooden floor around a dying fire. Their robes, worn continuously, were torn, filthy, and barely provided any warmth. Their faces were so dirty that they could hardly recognize each other. Alexander often mixed up his two blonde Eastern European comrades. 

“Sergei, light the fire, will you?” he muttered to the man next to him. 

“I’m Jakub,” the man replied carelessly; there was hardly a point in bothering to correct him anymore. “ _Incendio!_ ” 

The men were quiet for another half hour, basking in the light and warmth of the newly blazing orange fire. 

Alexander was debating whether or not to pull his boots off to try and dry out his socks. They’d gotten wet earlier when he’d marched through the snow to find some food or money some careless muggle may have left. Since his boots, like his robes, were in tatters, icy water had found its way to the bones of his feet quite easily. 

“Shh!” Sergei said suddenly, pressing a finger to his lips even though nobody had been speaking. “Did you hear that?” 

They all froze, holding their breaths. Alexander, who had a hand over his boot, ready to pull it off, leaned toward the door instinctively. Silence stretched on for another 20 minutes until their muscles relaxed in exhaustion. With a daily diet smaller than a street rat’s, they all struggled to keep their physical strength. Luckily, in their determination to find their Leader, Gellert Grindelwald, their magical strength was almost unaffected. 

“It was probably just another wall crumbling,” Jakub said at last. “Building’s about to go any second.”

“Do you reckon we should head back east?” Sergei asked. “They still can’t be so watchful after all this time…” 

“No, no, it’s much more dangerous,” Jakub told him. “They’re still uncovering secrets of the regime. I still can’t even write to my mum.” He bit his lip, thinking about his mother and how her every move was being watched by the Ministry of Poland. None of them could take the risk of contacting their families. 

Alexander’s own mother was also in London, a mere 20 or so blocks away from them at the moment, with his gran, sister, and brother. He’d grown up on these streets, his routine remarkably similar to what it was now—foraging for food, searching for direction. He was grateful that they’d survived the muggle bombs, but that was the only highlight of his childhood, that and caring for his little sister. A pang shot through his body when he thought of his family for too long. 

“Alright, I’m taking my boots off,” he announced, removing them with force. 

Jakub and Sergei groaned. “Might as well drop one of those muggle chemical bombs,” Sergei said, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the smell of wet, unwashed socks filled the room. “What do they call ‘em? Atom bombs?” 

“Oh, shut up,” Alexander replied, but he was smirking in amusement. “It smells worse when you pull your trousers down.”

“Please, when’s the last time you even got close to a bar of soap? In ’45, I reckon.”

Jakub, who’d been chuckling along, suddenly grew quiet and fearful. 

“What’s wrong, mate?” Alexander whispered. 

“I heard something.” Jakub’s blue eyes were wide and his face paler than usual. He clasped his hand around his wand, about to stand up. 

“What—?” 

The creaky door was thrown off its hinges and Ministry wizards flooded the room at once, wands pointed at the three boys. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” 

“Do not fire!” one yelled at Jakub, the only one who’d held onto his wand. Alexander’s and Sergei’s were now in the hands of an official. 

“ _Stupefy! _” Jakub yelled in response. A shield charm was cast and his spell bounced off over his shoulder, narrowly missing his face as he ducked. Another official seized the opportunity to manually snatch Jakub’s wand from his hand. Now unarmed, the three were pushed together and on their knees.__

“ _Incarcerous!_ ” a chorus rang out behind them, and ropes tied their hands together, linking them to each other’s. 

Marius Hewes, a lieutenant-type official, stood in front of them imperiously, pointing his wand at each of their faces in turn. “You filthy rats are under the arrest for the murder of Albus Dumbledore. Crouch! Put those wands in the evidence sack.” 

__“Yes, sir,” an eager young wizard said nearby._ _

__Hewes bent down so that he was eye-level with Alexander. Although the boy was indeed filthy, his handsome olive-skinned face now hollowed out and dark curls a bushy, matted mess, he was still recognizable. Hewes looked into his dark eyes and said, “We are going to Kiss your wretched life goodbye, boy. Crouch! You know what to do.”_ _

“ _STUPEFY!_ ” Crouch bellowed, and Alexander’s world turned black. 

__

__He woke up strapped to a chair, drool plastered against his chin. Looking around, he saw that he was in the Ministry of Magic, in a court room between Sergei and Jakub._ _

__Hewes tucked his wand away and took his seat next to Leonard Spencer-Moon, the Minister of Magic. On the stands next to them, about a dozen blue-robed wizards and witches stared down at the three accused with blatant loathing._ _

__“Alexander McElroy, Sergei Dolohov, and Jakub Paweza, you are being charged with the murder of Albus Dumbledore.” Hewes turned to Spencer-Moon. “Minister, these three are the last and most vicious of Grindelwald’s ruthless Magic Army. Not only did they capture Dumbledore in a weakened state after the duel, they tortured him after casting the Killing Curse. This Unforgivable Curse was cast by the Magic Army’s leader, Alexander McElroy at the tender age of 22, that one there in the middle.”_ _

Every single enraged eyeball in the room was on Alexander shivering in the wooden chair, shoeless, with his wrists bound in chains. Though he wasn’t feeling very defiant in his current state, he hardened his face and held eye contact with Spencer-Moon. _Go on, throw us in Azkaban_ , he thought. _We will emerge victorious!_

“Not only did they murder in cold blood one of the most brilliant wizards of the century, all three of them have tortured countless muggles just for fun,” Hewes continued, his round eyes gleaming. “And they hand-delivered Aurors from all over Europe for Grindelwald to throw away to Nurmengard! _This_ is why we must keep utmost vigilance against Dark magic!” There was spit flying from his mouth as he paced in front of Spencer-Moon’s podium, no longer speaking to just the Minister but to everyone. “Dark wizards are only after power and destruction!” 

Many of the blue-robed wizards and witches were nodding in agreement. Spencer-Moon, however, held up a patient hand. “Thank you, Marius.” To his credit, Leonard Spencer-Moon was a very fair wizard, even in the unfairness that came with running a magical society through wizarding and muggle wars running concurrently for almost his entire time in office. For many of Grindelwald’s soldiers, he could almost understand the motive, the conquest for security. Not that Spencer-Moon was against Muggle relations himself, no sir, but Gellert Grindelwald was a very powerful and persuasive man. The Ministry could only hope such a man would not rise to power again for a very long time. It is for this reason that they had to crack down on Dark soldiers after Dumbledore’s death. A sentence in Azkaban was too light, too risky. 

The tired, white-haired Minister let out a sigh. “The Ministry will no longer take such atrocities lightly. Albus Dumbledore was a great, yet kind and wise man, and you three have snatched such a gem from our world.” His voice grew heavier, touched with anger despite trying to speak neutrally. “Muggles are not destroying us. Grindelwald and his army have done much more damage to wizard-kind than any muggle ever will.” 

He turned to the blue-robed jury. “All in favor of guilty?” 

__Every single person raised their hand._ _

__The Minister’s face was not masked in hatred like the rest, only graveness. “Alexander McElroy, Sergei Dolohov, and Jakub Paweza, I sentence the three of you to the Dementor’s Kiss, to be effective immediately.”_ _

__A low sob escaped Jakub’s lips as Spencer-Moon slammed his gavel against the podium._ _

__Grim-faced, blue-robed wizards, one of them Barty Crouch, led them down to an empty stone hallway to a vast, cold room where three chained chairs and three Dementors waited. Each of the young men were lost in their minds, reflecting on their immediate fate._ _

__“Any last wishes?” Crouch sneered, now more comfortable out of the watch of Hewes. “Rhetorical question, boys. I don’t need to hear any sniveling.”_ _

__No matter—the trio didn’t feel much like talking, even if any of them could wrench their mouths open. Silent tears dripped off Jakub’s cheeks while Sergei stood rigidly and proudly._ _

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” A silvery fox sprang out of Crouch’s wand and trotted around the room keeping the dark, hooded figures at bay as the remainder of the Magic Army were forced into the chairs. 

__As the icy chains wrapped around their arms, legs, and torsos, Alexander thought about his last wishes. He had many—that he could have found Grindelwald and restored the Army, that he could have recruited more soldiers, converted more to believers, controlled more muggles._ _

__But his strongest wish of all was that he could go back just a day or two, or even just a few hours, and find the courage to sneak to his mother’s flat to see her, his gran, sister, and brother one last time. Especially his sister, who was still sorting out all of the changes and losses in her young life. He wished he could have brought back glory to the McElroy name._ _

~**~ ~**~

__Stateira McElroy, a fifth-year prefect, sat at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, picking at her breakfast and balancing her Charms textbook on her lap. Preoccupied with studying for OWLs looming ahead, she didn’t notice the frequent glances her way by her fellow prefect, Alphard Black, and his good friend Abraxas Malfoy. Sometime during their fifth year, the Hogwarts students had started to transform and mature. However, this was not yet noticed by Stateira, who wasn't yet 16. She had other concerns, such as beating every poncey Gryffindor and Ravenclaw with Outstanding OWLs, which Headmaster Dippet would hopefully announce in September._ _

__The morning post flew in, dropping parcels, letters, and newspapers to various students. Stateira wasn’t expecting mail, as it had been ages since anyone had written to her, but she was unable to stop her head from lifting hopefully. After all, they’d had to sell her owl, Greta, for a few galleons to keep the flat, and Alex? Well, it would be too risky for him to write; what if they owl had gotten intercepted?_ _

__No, Stateira had to cut out the hopeful nonsense and focus on her studies. She read one sentence and looked back up sighing, unable to concentrate. Perhaps she would fare better at the library, but she only had an hour until her Charms lesson. It was at least a ten-minute walk to the library from the Great Hall, and that’s if the stairwells weren’t acting up. As her dark eyes scanned the tables, Stateira noticed something so odd that she was immediately jolted out of her thoughts. Every other student, or at least the majority, seemed to be looking at her and whispering amongst each other._ _

__Perplexed, she turned to the nearest Slytherin sitting about a foot away, which was Alphard Black. Before she could open her mouth to ask what was going on, she noticed the Daily Prophet in his hands. DUMBLEDORE’S MURDERER CAUGHT AND CONVICTED was stamped across the page above three mugshots._ _

__“Ooh, can I see that?” Stateira asked curiously, momentarily forgetting her surroundings._ _

__“Erm, well…” Alphard began reluctantly, looking uncomfortable._ _

__She frowned at him before looking back down at the paper. Then, the world stopped turning as she saw the black curls, tanned skin, and the dark eyes so very like her own in the middle photograph._ _

__Abandoning all pretense, she snatched the paper from Alphard’s hands. Her textbook slipped off her lap and crashed onto the floor, unnoticed, as her eyes scanned the paragraph under the pictures._ _

_Alexander McElroy, aged 22, was the leader of Grindelwald’s infamous Magic Army, and caster of the Killing Curse against Albus Dumbledore, aged 64… The three convicts were sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss… took place on 21 March 1947…_

__There was a horrible, piercing ringing in Stateira’s ears. She could feel the dusty ink against her palms and her fingernails tearing through the soft paper, but she was unable to keep her fists from clenching. When she finally tore her eyes away from her brother’s face, the first one she saw belonged to Antonia Longbottom, fourth-year Ravenclaw and Stateira’s former best friend. Like Stateira, Antonia was clutching the Daily Prophet, staring in horror._ _

__Robotically, casting her gaze down at her cold food, Stateira neatly folded up the newspaper and placed it gently on Alphard Black’s lap. “Thank you, Alphard,” she croaked, rising slowly from the table, careful not to make any sudden moves. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see, no, feel the disapproving glare of Professor Merrythought, and her hands curled into fists once more._ _

_Get out of here, forget her, get out of here!_

__“McElroy?” Abraxas Malfoy called concernedly from Black’s other side. “Are you alright?”_ _

Stateira could barely hear him over the incessant ringing in her ears. The faces were blurring, the floor was humming under hear Mary Janes… _Get out of here_ … Finally she unlocked a leg and took a step forward. Feeling many pairs of eyes on her, she calmly strode away from the Slytherin table toward the doors of the Great Hall, leaving her textbook forgotten under the table. Alphard Black picked it up and attempted to call to her, but Malfoy elbowed him and shook his head. 

__Once she was safely in the corridor, Stateira legged it to the first-floor bathroom, where she knew no one would enter. Everyone avoided that bathroom since the end of Stateira’s first year, when a girl named Myrtle Warren was found dead. Headmaster Dippet and the other professors had told them she was killed by a rabid acromantula illegally owned by a third-year Gryffindor, Rubeus Hagrid. However, Malfoy and Yaxley claimed that Myrtle was killed by a monster that dwelled in the Chamber of Secrets, which could only be controlled by the heir of Salazar Slytherin. Since Hagrid was clearly not Slytherin’s heir and his spider did not come from any chamber, few people believed that rumor. Nevertheless, the bathroom was avoided and abandoned._ _

__Stateira locked herself in the farthest stall from the door, sat on the toilet seat cover, and collapsed into tears. One of her clenched fists, the left like always, made its way to her mouth on its own accord. Her lips parted and her teeth sank down around the first knuckle of her pointer finger. Even the taste of blood in her mouth wouldn’t help her pull it away._ _

__It was not Dumbledore she was concerned about. To her, the old Transfiguration professor was just that, a man who preferred Gryffindor kids over Slytherins, regardless of everyone’s ravings about his brilliance. Anyway, he’d been dead for almost two years, his auburn hair and twinkling blue eyes dominating posters and magazines of all kinds. Even his last move, banishing Grindelwald to who-knows-where, had been honorable._ _

__No, it was not the loss of Dumbledore but her brother Alexander that Stateira cried for. Alexander, who had worked long hours at Borgin and Burke’s for money for food and rent, who had stood up to the Blood Traitor, who had fed his brother countless bottles when their mother was too distraught to rise, who had held his sister close when the bombs came, was gone. Maybe he was still alive, but not for long, and his soul was gone. Did it really matter if his body was alive or not? Her brother was gone._ _

__Crying and biting through skin was no longer going to suffice. Her vision was blurring and every bone in her body shook as she rocked back and forth. The stall of the door was blasted off the hinges and Stateira’s eyes snapped open momentarily._ _

_Stop it… Control yourself, lass…_

__She could not—it was too late. The porcelain of the toilet cracked as she stood up and exited the stall. Immediately the mirror shattered, throwing shards of glass on the floor. Pieces of the sinks broke off, and water shot out from one of the taps. A conjured wind whipped the shards of glass and ceramic chunks into the air while the walls shook. Stateira was on her knees, howling, as the floor tiles shifted, the stall walls wavered…and then it was over. The girl opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and sucked in the magical energy into her lungs, nearly throwing herself flat on her back. Loud planks and clangs echoed through the bathroom as the glass and ceramic shards dropped onto the floor._ _

__The ringing had subsided, leaving pure silence in its wake. Stateira stood up, knees cracking, her stockings and the bottom of her skirt and robes soaked with water. Her face was hardened, her dust-stung eyes blank. With a steady hand, she pulled out a handkerchief from the pocket of her robes and dabbed the tears off her freckled cheeks. Breathing evenly, without a glance at the rubble around her, Stateira McElroy turned and walked out of the bathroom, glass crunching beneath her feet._ _

_~**~ ~**~_

__  
The air outside was stifling, uncannily hot even for June, but inside the castle was cool and dark. It was officially the last day of term, but the Hogwarts Express had already left to London, so the majority of students had gone home for the summer, leaving the hallways empty. Tom Riddle was not a nostalgic man, but it was quite enjoyable walking down the corridors of Hogwarts again. He’d graduated in 1945, only two years ago, but he’d been busy those two years.

_Not as busy as Alexander McElroy_ , he thought somewhat bitterly. McElroy, who had graduated in 1943, was not nearly as talented and intelligent as Tom Riddle, but nevertheless he’d managed to kill Dumbledore. He and Tom had only spoken directly once, outside of Hogwarts. In the summer of 1943, right before he departed to Eastern Europe, McElroy was invited to a supper at the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. He’d spoken only of his devotion to Grindelwald, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. Once in a while, he’d give it a rest and scold his first-year sister, who seemed to worship him almost as much as he worshiped Grindelwald. McElroy had nearly been expelled from Hogwarts in his fifth year for writing a 430-page manifesto on The Greater Good, the belief that wizards should be prioritized over muggles. The Black cousins, Cygnus and Orion, admired McElroy, but Tom did not. McElroy had spent his life bowing down to someone else. 

__If there was a touch of jealousy, it was very slight. Yes, Tom would have liked to be the one to kill Dumbledore. Be that as it may, McElroy had only made it easier for him. With both of them out of the way, Tom could execute his plans with minimal disruption._ _

__After momentarily rehashing the details of his plans, always a pleasurable experience, Tom found himself in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office._ _

__“Unity and peace,” he told it, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. The gargoyle jumped aside. Tom ascended the spiral staircase and knocked on the door._ _

__“Enter!” he heard Dippet say._ _

__The headmaster’s office was exactly the same as when Tom had been there last in 1943, when he’d framed that dumb half-breed Hagrid for the mudblood’s death. The memory brought a genuine smile to his face, which he aimed at Dippet as the older man stood in greeting._ _

__“Ah, Tom Riddle, good to see you again!”_ _

__“You as well, sir,” Tom replied, shaking his hand._ _

__“You know, two years have passed since your graduation and you’re still unrivaled! I’ve been waiting for another brilliant mind, but yours comes once in a blue moon, I suppose. Here, have a lemon drop.” He slid a glass bowl filled with candy across the desk, which Tom ignored._ _

__“Well, sir, I may have a solution to the lack of…excellence at Hogwarts.”_ _

__Dippet raised his white-streaked grey eyebrows. “Oh? Do tell…”_ _

__“I’ve heard that Professor Merrythought is planning to retire. If you haven’t got a replacement, I would be happy to fill the position.”_ _

__“Ah, well…you would be the perfect candidate to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.” The old man scratched his head absentmindedly, looking away. “I can’t think of anyone more qualified, except Galatea, of course…”_ _

__Tom sat patiently, waiting for him to get to the point. His foot lifted, ready to tap, but he held it in place._ _

__“But the problem is…Galatea isn’t retiring this year, or the next. She is thinking about going to 1950…”_ _

__Tom’s plans could not wait until 1950. He knew his mind; if he did not start now, he’d consider the Horcrux route again. “Perhaps we could divide the classes? I could teach the younger years while Professor Merrythought takes the NEWT level.” He would have preferred the older ones, having graduated with and recruited a couple of their siblings, but he was not in a position to bargain too strongly. Not yet._ _

__“The other way around,” Dippet muttered, tapping his chin and gazing somewhere past Tom’s head. “You could take the NEWT students and Galatea can have the easier lessons…she’s rather fond of the young ones…of course I’d have to keep her pay the same, but if Spencer-Moon keeps his promise to expand the education budget, it won’t be an issue. Alright!” He stuck out his hand again. “Welcome back to Hogwarts, Professor!”_ _

__Against his will, Tom’s eyes widened; he had expected to use more of his persuasion skills. He shook the old man’s hand and smiled. Step one: complete. “Thank you very much, Headmaster.”_ _

__Dippet waved a relaxed hand. “You’re one of us now, Tom. Call me Armando.”_ _

__After a lengthy discussion about procedure, Tom was again walking down the corridors. The teaching position offered two benefits: recruitment of students and the familiarity of his first home. Alas, these were only temporary, as he didn’t plan on staying more than a few years._ _

__For old time’s sake, he decided to pop in the first-floor girls’ bathroom and, unknown to all except him, the entrance to the Chamber. How powerful he’d felt upon learning that he was the heir of the noble Salazar Slytherin and not just some pitiable, half-blood orphan. None of his Knights would ever be as extraordinary as he; with the diary, he had power Grindelwald and Dumbledore had not. Now with his new plan, he thought as he pushed opened the door to the bathroom, he might not even need the diary. They would all worship the ground—_ _

Tom stopped short, frowning as he looked around the bathroom. Someone—or some _thing_ —had destroyed it. The entrance to his glorious Chamber was cracked and broken, the mirrors shattered into pieces. Yet he supposed it was better this way. Still no one would want to use this bathroom, let alone look for the entrance to the Chamber. Until one day far in the distance, when it would be opened again. 

~**~ ~**~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI:  
> -The title is inspired by a song by Morcheeba of the same name.  
> -Stateira was the second wife of Alexander the Great.  
> -This chapter is actually the shortest of the story, and this story is quite long so far.  
> -Thanks for reading!


	2. Autumn 1947

Stateira McElroy was seated between Aurelia Parkinson and Beryl Fawley at the Slytherin table. Unlike her two counterparts, Stateira had prefect duties, which meant she would soon have to stand up and direct the first-years. She looked forward to the task immensely, prepared to boss them around. Needless to say, this year she had a lot of pent-up frustration to excise. 

Druella Rosier, on the other side of Aurelia, leaned in. “Who’s that handsome bloke next to Merrythought?” 

Aurelia, Stateira, and Beryl craned their necks to look. Next to a frowning, curly-grey-haired Professor Merrythought was a pale young man, quite young for a professor, with dark wavy hair. He was unsmiling, surveying the tables of chattering students. 

“He looks rather familiar…” Beryl was saying. 

Stateira was deep into a flashback: The Noble and Ancient House of Black, or whatever its title, playing Witch Hunt with Alphard Black in the summer after their first year. A table in the courtyard, surrounded by six Slytherin boys. Alexander, fresh out of Hogwarts, was discussing his plan to join Grindelwald abroad, while the younger boys sat listening. One of them was tall and pale, and looked very similar to the man sitting next to Merrythought. 

Then it segued into another, which occurred a year later, 1944. Stateira was in her third year and it was Spring Visiting Day. The single member of her family that showed up twice a year on each Visiting Day and to escort her to the Hogwarts Express was Alexander, but he was already abroad in Spring 1944. On the last day of winter break, he’d brought his sister back to Hogwarts, gave her a hug, and told her there was a chance they’d not see each other again. “I will miss you all, but I must fight for The Greater Good,” he had told her. “I cannot stay here and let the wizarding world continue to dissolve."

So he’d left, and no one else had either money or desire to visit Stateira at Hogwarts. Her gran and mother had both been sick—one physically, temporarily, and one mentally, permanently—and she wouldn’t consider the Blood Traitor. 

Of course, she hadn’t been the only one without a visit. In 1944, there were quite a few students whose families had been greatly affected one way or another by the wars. However, at first, it had looked like she was the only Slytherin—how utterly mortifying. She’d gone straight to the common room, wanting to avoid sitting awkwardly in the Great Hall, waiting for no one. _I’ll just read_ , she’d decided, but then someone else had entered the common room: that tall, handsome prefect the professors always raved about, comparing his brilliance to Dumbledore’s. How could she have forgotten his name already? 

He’d spotted her on the couch and approached her. “Not expecting a visit?” 

“No,” Stateira had answered, looking wistfully at the bright green from the sun shining through the lake in the windows. 

The prefect had held out his hand and offered to escort her to the feast, before which families walked through the gardens on their way back into the castle. She’d accepted and they entered the Great Hall silently, arm in arm. They hadn’t spoken at all, but Stateira had known from somewhere that his parents were dead. 

_Riddle_ , she suddenly remembered. _His name is—_

“Stateira, come on!” Alphard Black urged suddenly, tapping on her shoulder. “The Sorting’s about to start.” 

“Oh, damn,” she muttered to herself as she rose from the table. Merrythought was already holding the Sorting Hat, about to call names—Stateira had missed the song entirely. 

She arranged her face into a tight scowl as she walked to the front, scanning the Slytherin table for miscreants. At the next table over, she saw Antonia Longbottom had made Ravenclaw prefect. _What a surprise_ , she thought bitterly but then spotted a second-year holding a Sneakoscope, which was summarily snatched out of his hands. She tucked it in her robes as she took her place at the right side in front of the table, with Alphard Black on the left side, as she vowed to Vanish it to teach the first-years a lesson. 

Slytherin gained only four new students for the 1947-1948 school year: a small, auburn haired boy named Jonathan Nott, Druella Rosier’s brother, a blank-faced, pale girl with blonde ringlets named Emily something-or-other, and a hunched, dark-haired girl with what seemed like a perpetual scowl. Her name was Eileen Prince. 

The prefects had to greet them enthusiastically and guide them to the first-years’ section at the end of the table. As soon as Stateira seated the Prince girl, she took back her position at the front of the table. 

“Good evening, Hogwarts pupils!” Dippet said at the podium, raising his arms. “Welcome back and I hope you’ve all had a wonderful summer! Before we begin, I have a couple of announcements to make. First of all, there is a ban on any products purchased from Zonko’s Joke Shop in Hogsmeade. Any student who is caught with one will be deducted fifty House points, so if you are concerned with your fellow housemate’s opinions of you, I advise you to steer clear of Zonko’s. Second, for the boys, Quidditch tryouts will be hosted this Saturday. Get in contact with your team’s captain if you’re interested.” 

Icarus Yaxley, the Slytherin Quidditch captain, puffed out his chest and nodded imperiously. Out of the corner of her eye, Stateira could see one of the younger-year Slytherin boys with a pack of Exploding Snap, but she’d already taken a seat. Beside her, Beryl Fawley and Druella Rosier were chatting quietly.

“My second announcement concerns our professors. Our dear Professor Merrythought will not be retiring yet, so have no fear!” 

Stateira snorted against her will, earning her an appreciative smirk from Abraxas Malfoy in front of her. According to the Slytherins, Merrythought held a bias against them even stronger than Dumbledore had. 

“She will be teaching years one through four in preparation for your OWLs. Your NEWT classes in Defense Against the Dark Arts will be taught by Professor Tom Riddle. Everyone please welcome him.” 

The sound of clapping filled the Great Hall, particularly from the older Slytherins who had gone to school with him. “That’s the Head Boy from ’45,” Druella called to her brother. 

Dippet stood to the side of the podium, looking at Riddle, clearly expecting him to make a speech, but Riddle merely took a seat and returned Dippet’s gaze. The headmaster took back the podium and continued with a more serious voice. 

“As most of you know, we’ve lost our former Transfiguration professor. Albus Dumbledore was a brilliant wizard with a golden heart. He was a favorite among not only Hogwarts and students, but all of Magical Britain. He made tremendous contributions to the wizarding world, such as discovering 12 uses of dragon blood and working with the alchemist Nicholas Flamel. Shortly before his death, he was awarded the Order of Merlin, first class, for defeating the most powerful and ruthless Dark wizard of all time, Gellert Grindelwald.

“Since his untimely death in 1945, we at Hogwarts prelude our first feast of the school year with a moment of silence to one of the greatest wizards of all time, Albus Dumbledore.” 

The students and staff bowed their heads and for a minute there was pure silence except for sniffling at the Gryffindor table. Every student in their second year or higher expected this introduction from the previous year. 

When it was over, Stateira McElroy let out a breath. She’d been worried about the speech this year, if it would’ve changed to include new information. The Hogwarts Express had been humiliating enough. Her fellow classmates seemed reluctant to look at her or occupy space with her for too long. She’d expected it from other Houses, but even a couple of Slytherins had iced over their interactions with her as well. One of the new prefects, Miriam Shafiq, hadn’t been exactly eager to receive instructions from her. Stateira was grateful to those who didn’t treat her any differently, such as all of the boys in her own year and most of the girls. She didn’t even bother glancing at Antonia Longbottom; the nail was in the coffin of that friendship now. 

Loud clinking filled the Hall as Stateira realized that while she’d been wrapped up in miserable thoughts, the plates had been filled with food. Although she hadn’t eaten much over the summer, the usual hunger ache she felt every first of September was absent. Idly, she lifted her fork to her mouth and took a tiny bite, ignoring the stares and whispers spreading through the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables as students finished their supper. 

 

Alphard Black, fellow Slytherin prefect, was situated between his two closest friends, Abraxas Malfoy and Icarus Yaxley. Across from them was another good friend, Sequitur Delmont. Although, if he was to be completely honest with himself, there seemed to be a slight rift between him and his friends as of late. He couldn’t explain it, but the combination of their fanatical views on pureblood supremacy and their impatience with Alphard himself was a shovel chipping away at the rift. 

“He was in Lestrange’s year,” Abraxas was saying. “And Avery’s, remember?” 

The other boys nodded, glancing up and the new professor. They were all very familiar with him but none of the boys had spoken much with the man himself. Despite his connection to the older boys from Sacred 28 families, he was quiet and kept to himself. Rumor had it that Riddle was a half-blood and an orphan, but no one would dare ask about that directly. It wasn’t all that odd to see him sitting at the professor’s table; as Head Boy he’d been strict and businesslike, with no real attachment to any student outside of his small social circle. 

Out of the four Slytherin sixth-year boys, Alphard was probably the most acquainted with Riddle on account of his friendship with Alphard’s older brother, Cygnus, who had just graduated the past June. He’d been to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black a handful of times. Presumably, Cygnus had omitted or lied about Riddle’s blood status to his parents, as his parents would never allow anyone with less than pure blood to step foot anywhere near their residence. 

“What do you reckon they’re saying about him?” Icarus asked, nodding to the Ravenclaw table. All of the students spoke in hushed tones, as if sharing one collective secret.

“Who cares?” Abraxas replied, stuffing a piece of turkey in his mouth. “They’re all idiots.” He sounded like quite the idiot himself with his mouth that full. 

“I mean, Riddle is supposedly brilliant, but is that really so profound to make all that fuss over?” Sequitur said. 

“They’re not speaking of Riddle.” 

The statement came out flatly from the mouth of Stateira McElroy, who was seated across from Abraxas and had apparently abandoned her supper plate. “They’re discussing my brother and how he murdered Dumbledore.” 

She spoke bluntly and resolutely, but her failure to lift her head and look at any of them told Alphard that she wasn’t as proud as she was determined to be. 

“They can all sod off,” Abraxas told her kindly, resting a reassuring hand on the girl’s. “If any of them get mouthy, we’ll give them a nice Stinging Hex straight to their faces, won’t we?” 

“We will not,” Alphard said firmly. “Otherwise I’ll have to deduct House points.”

The three boys rolled their eyes. Out of them all, Alphard was not only the most obedient to the rules, but he got the highest marks. Although he would rather drink Stinksap than admit it out loud, he was secretly hoping to make Head Boy next year. 

“He’s right,” Stateira said quietly, coming to his defense. “I have to just ignore them until the next scandal comes out and distracts everyone.”

Alphard nodded sympathetically, but the other boys had already forgotten her, switching the topic back to Riddle, which Beryl Fawley, Aurelia Parkinson, and Druella Rosier were keen to join in on, gushing about how fanciable he was. 

He turned to Stateira, ready to ask about how her summer went, but she’d already left the table to direct the first years to the common room. Alphard followed suit, thinking it was probably for the best that he didn’t ask her anyway. He could deduce that her summer wasn’t pleasant in the slightest. 

 

“Hmm, two E’s and seven O’s,” Merrythought muttered, looking at a piece of parchment labeled MCELROY, STATEIRA. Across from her sat the student in question, who was quite proud of herself for getting so many OWLs despite the world-shattering Daily Prophet article. 

Of course, Merrythought was not impressed, Stateira noted drily. The professor kept her grey-green eyes cast down, upper lip twitching as if she was fighting the urge to wrinkle her nose. 

“Well,” she finally forced out, “it appears that you can go in any direction with these marks. Do you have an idea what you’ll be doing after you graduate?” 

Stateira shook her head. “No, madam.” 

“None at all? How should I divide your schedule, then?” 

“Perhaps I shall take all of the classes I’ve gotten O’s on,” Stateira said with more confidence than she felt. “Better to be more prepared than less.” 

“Yes…” Merrythought replied slowly. “Although that would give you the Auror schedule. I take it you’re not planning on being an _Auror_.” 

Her muttered tone incensed the girl, but she held her anger in check. Instead she blurted, “I’ll take it.” 

This time, the professor locked eyes with her as a flash of outrage crossed her face. An avid Dumbledore trustee and admirer, the idea of a McElroy Auror was particularly heinous to Galatea Merrythought. However, there was no solid evidence that one evil sibling guaranteed the evil of another, so she dipped her quill into her inkpot and begrudgingly wrote AUROR under the girl’s name.

“Alright then, the most important class is, of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Since you’ve got an Outstanding OWL here, you can go on to NEWT level with Riddle. Er, Professor Riddle. Merlin, it feels so strange to say that.” She was muttering to herself again. “He only just graduated, it feels like. Hmm, I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise…”

Stateira’s leg was shaking, as she was anxious to get the schedule and scoot out of there. Merrythought was still mumbling about Riddle or maybe something else, and Stateira bit back the command to hurry up. Finally, after what felt like an hour, she was cleared for Potions, Arithmancy, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Ancient Runes, and Astronomy. Without waiting for further instruction, she took her schedule, thanked Merrythought, and scurried to her first class, Arithmancy. In the hall, she passed Professors Slughorn and Groot. Normally Slughorn would have acknowledged her at the very least, but he did not. He either didn’t see her or no longer wanted to associate himself with such a known Dark family. 

Yes, it was shaping to be a difficult year for Stateira McElroy, no matter how well she planned to do in her NEWT classes. 

 

Tom Riddle slid the parchment Merrythought had slapped down on his desk with the list of students in his two NEWT classes toward him. The seventh-year list had no recognizable names from Slytherin or even Ravenclaw, but the sixth-years looked more promising: out of 10, five were Slytherins, three of which were from the pureblood elite. Black—just how many Blacks were there?—Malfoy, and Yaxley were almost guaranteed to become Knights. 

Delmont wasn’t royalty, but he was still a pureblood and good enough if he’d gotten into the class. And a Golden Ticket: Alexander McElroy’s younger sister. Would she be as much of a passionate follower as her brother? Did he even want her? That was the true question. Lord Voldemort led Knights, not damsels. He hadn’t a shred of patience for 16-year-old girls when he was 16 himself, let alone currently. She was more likely to be bred with one of his Knights. No, she wasn’t worth worrying over; best to focus on the other Slytherin, Delmont, and maybe even the two Ravenclaws, Boot and Longbottom. No, wait, Boot was also a female, and forget the two Gryffindors, Prewett and Finch. The lone Hufflepuff, McMillan, was crossed out as well by default. 

Tom let out a breath and glanced at his watch—3:10. The sixth-year class started in five minutes. Leaving the student list on his desk, he strode into his office, keeping the door ajar. He sat in the chair, listening to the students filing into the dungeon talk about inane subjects, such as summer holiday, their parents’ discipline methods, the attractiveness of so-and-so… It would be just his luck to wind up with a class full of idiots. 

At exactly 3:15, he reentered the classroom, where talking ceased at once. In a bored voice, he introduced himself and told the students to each state their name. He noticed a prefect’s badge on the McElroy girl’s robes; perhaps she was a follower in need of approval like her brother. However, while the other four Slytherins were watching him in admiration, no doubt hearing his legacy from recently graduated students, she was giving him a look of apprehension. This was rather irksome, as Tom specifically recalled walking the brat through the gardens on Visiting Day 1944, since none of her disgraced relatives had bothered to visit her. When he made eye contact with her, she looked down at her textbook. 

“Who can tell me what the foundation for the Dark Arts is?” He paused as 10 dumb, blank faces stared at him. “What do you need to be in order to cast a Dark spell?” 

“Evil?” Ignatius Prewett asked, inciting a chuckle from the fool next to him. 

_Typical ignorant Gryffindor_. “Next time, please raise your hand if you wish to speak, Mr. Prewett.” Tom started to pace in front of the blackboard, which he hadn’t bothered to write on. “And your answer is incorrect. You need to be powerful. _Power_ is the foundation not only for the Dark Arts but any type of meaningful magic. Out of the 10 in this room, maybe two of you will ever have the ability to cast an Unforgivable Curse, unless you’re anything like my seventh-year class, which has none.” 

Malfoy and Delmont grinned, but Prewett had his hand in the air. “Yes, Mr. Prewett.” 

“What…why would anyone _want_ to use an Unforgivable Curse, sir?” 

Tom knew this kid would give him some trouble. Prewett’s father was some high-ranked Ministry official, giving little Ignatius an undeserved amount of pride. “I would hope you wouldn’t, Mr. Prewett, but that does not mean your opponent won’t. The Killing Curse is unable to be blocked, but the other two can be shown resistance. It takes tremendous power to resist and even greater to cast them. Once you can use your will, your intent, effectively, you will match or succeed your opponent.” He spoke calmly and confidently, the same charming voice he used with Dippet flowing with ease. All 10 pairs of eyes were on him, all 10 mouths closed. 

“This is why you’ll be learning a few basic-level curses, to gather and hone your intent. You have been taught that the Dark Arts is commonly used to cause harm. Obviously we don’t want to cause harm to anyone, but negative intent is often more powerful than positive. It is up to you to extract that power to defend, or use any way you wish.” 

The McElroy girl had leaned in slightly, wide dark eyes filled completely with intrigue. Persuasion gave Tom a slight, natural euphoria, a spell in itself that didn’t require traditional magic. He paced once more, savoring it for a moment, and then Prewett raised his hand again. 

“Sir, is it _legal_ for the Dark Arts to be taught at Hogwarts?” 

The other nine tensed as all of their heads turned to the obnoxious, red-haired boy. Keeping his voice pleasant, Tom asked, “What do you think, Mr. Prewett?” 

“Well, I’m not sure,” Prewett admitted, his cheeks tinging red. Then he took a breath and sat up straight. “But I can ask my father, who works at the Ministry.” 

Tom nodded impassively. “You do that, and please let me know what he says.” 

It was his lack of reaction that he knew was causing the boy discomfort. His eyes were on his knees now as he gave a meek “yes, sir.” 

“Oh please, Prewett,” Abraxas Malfoy sneered. “Your father works for the _Muggle Liaison Office_. What the hell would he know about the Ministry’s affairs at Hogwarts?” 

Malfoy’s own father, Cassius, was Head of the Department of Magical Education. The Malfoys were wealthy and influential not only in the Ministry, but with other pureblood families such as the Blacks, Lestranges, and Rosiers. The entire year would be worth it if young Abraxas was recruited. 

It was clear that this blonde, sharp-featured boy was revered among his fellow Slytherins: Delmont, Yaxley, Black, and McElroy all grinned appreciatively at him. Keeping his face neutral, Tom gave a moment for Prewett to cower in humiliation before speaking again. 

“If anyone else has concerns about the curriculum, please feel free to take it up with Headmaster Dippet.” Knowing full well that none of the others would, he began the first lesson by telling them to split up into pairs and line up against the far wall, facing each other. 

“You’ve all been properly taught the Shield Charm, yes? The right side will cast their shields while the left will cast the Full-Body Bind Curse. A fairly simple curse but now you have to force it through your partner’s shield. Ready…begin.”

As predicted, none of the students were able to cut through the Shield Charms, and it was quite amusing to see their previously over-inflated confidence dwindle. Black, Malfoy, Finch, Prewett, and McElroy stood behind their shields either snickering at or encouraging their opponents. All except for McElroy, who was staring off into who-knows-where. 

“Alright, switch!” Tom commanded after 15 minutes. Now it was the left against the right, and more struggling ensued. After another 10 minutes, the only Full-Body Bind Curse that had been successfully performed was on Boot by McElroy, but that was due to Boot bringing down her shield to recast the charm. 

“Nice work, lady,” Black said to McElroy as she lifted the curse, freeing Boot. A badge was also attached to his robes, so no doubt they’d gotten friendly through prefect duties. Lysandra Bell, Head Girl of 1945, was the only girl Tom had bothered to speak more than a few words to, simply because he did not have a choice. 

“We have to _break_ the charm,” McElroy replied, displeased with herself. “She let hers down.” 

“Still, she would’ve lost in a duel.” Black winked at her before turning back to Yaxley. “Well done.”

McElroy smiled shyly at him. “Thank you, Alphard.”

Only one shield was broken by the end of class: Malfoy’s by Delmont, earning him 20 points to Slytherin. “Find some time to practice,” Tom told his students, “as you’ll be doing the same on Wednesday… nonverbally.” 

A few of their faces paled as they gathered their belongings and filed out of the room. He was unconcerned; the bright ones would master it, the dull ones would not, and neither would affect the pace of his lessons. 

“I told you I’m the boss of curses,” he heard Delmont say to the other Slytherins. Apparently arrogance was not limited to the Sacred 28. 

Once they’d all gone, Tom closed the door to the classroom and sat down at his desk. Pushing a lock of wavy hair off his forehead, he glanced down at the sixth-year list of students. The next few years as a professor would certainly try his patience, but they would pay off when he collected a few Knights to his ranks. 

As the Slytherins headed to the Great Hall for supper, Stateira awkwardly trailed behind the four boys, not wanting to get stuck near Prewett or Antonia Longbottom’s brother, Achilles. However, Achilles strode right past the Slytherin group, pointedly looking away. 

Up ahead, Delmont was relentlessly bragging about his superior cursing skills while the other three tuned him out. Malfoy commented about hurrying to the Great Hall to catch a seat next to Druella Rosier. 

“You’re out of luck, mate,” Black told him. “My brother’s already vowed to take her hand.” 

Druella Rosier was the prettiest upper-year in Slytherin if not all of Hogwarts. With perfectly sculpted blonde curls, heavy-lidded grey-brown eyes, and the most expensive uniform sold in Diagon Alley, Druella was akin to a porcelain doll. Her haughty, cold demeanor further prompted the resemblance. 

Stateira knew that, with her plain light brown hair, freckled cheeks, and slightly mousy face, she wasn’t close to that level of beauty. Although sometimes she caught Malfoy looking at her, especially now since their NEWT schedules were nearly identical. She was flattered, but she didn’t much concern herself with the opinions of her male counterparts. It wasn’t as if any of them could ever compare to Alexander. 

Since she wasn’t very hungry, she decided to take a detour to the dormitories to put her textbooks away instead of going straight to the Great Hall. Maybe she would catch the tail end and nibble on some sourdough bread dipped in spinach custard. 

On the way, she passed Antonia Longbottom, arm in arm with Bruin Weasley, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was a big, burly, rather pompous fellow from a muggle-loving family—another blood traitor. Stateira had automatically loathed him just for that, but his ego had aggravated both Stateira and Antonia immensely over the years. _Looks like you’ve warmed up to him rather fast_ , Stateira wanted to say to her former friend, but she simply looked away as she walked past them. 

“That’s the sister of Dumbledore’s murderer, right?” Weasley asked, not bothering to lower his voice. 

“That’s right,” Antonia replied, and Stateira’s hand moved to her mouth, ready to bite her knuckle. As her teeth sank into the soft skin, she ducked into the ravaged girls’ bathroom, knowing she wasn’t stable enough to enter the Great Hall. 

~**~ ~**~

As the weeks passed and the students settled into their routines of classes, homework, meals, gossiping, Quidditch, and flirting, Stateira’s days grew easier. Even the murder of the most powerful wizard of the century faded into the background as new topics of discussion arose, just like she’d predicted to Abraxas Malfoy. 

As for the professors, they all remained grim about the loss of Dumbledore, but they’d decided not to take it out on Alexander McElroy’s little sister. After all, she was a prefect with high marks and not even a detention under her belt. 

Slughorn was back to his friendly self, praising Stateira’s work in Potions. Binns, Vector, and Groot had never treated her differently, and after being first and so far the only student to cast a strong nonverbal spell, she was at the very least on Riddle’s good side. He awarded many points to Slytherins and seemed to favor his own House, like Slughorn. But Merrythought and Dumbledore had favored their House, Gryffindor, so no one could kick up a fuss. 

Sixth year was running smoothly for a fair amount…and then came November 16, 1947: Autumn Visiting Day. Stateira hadn’t been expecting anyone, as her mum and gran were still forbidden to leave London. No Slytherin prefect to walk with her that year, and the Heads were both from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw; she couldn’t remember which. 

After she bade Beryl Fawley, Aurelia Parkinson, and Druella Rosier good bye, Stateira planned on sneaking off to the seventh floor, where she had found a room she could transform into an old cottage in Ireland that Grandma McElroy used to take them before the war came. It felt quite empty without any of her relatives, but it calmed her all the same. There, she did not bite her knuckles or sit stiff and tense like she seemed to do in the rest of Hogwarts. She rather liked Hogwarts—it was always warm and pleasant for her, not to mention a relief from the desperate poverty she lived in over the summers—but sometimes she needed a break from everyone. However, she did not get one that day because Merrythought approached her and informed her that her father was waiting for her in the corridor. 

“What?” Stateira blurted. “Erm, are you sure, Professor?” 

Merrythought tightened her lips. “Yes, I’m sure.” _The last thing the school needs is another McElroy_ was likely what she wanted to say. 

Numb with shock, Stateira followed her out of the Great Hall. It felt as though she’d only taken two steps to the corridor; the walk was too short. At the far end of the corridor next to a stone gargoyle stood her father, or as Stateira, Alexander, and their gran had called him since 1938, the Blood Traitor. 

She stopped short, watching Merrythought turn and realize the student was no longer next to her. Her father walked over, smiling with his arms out. “Stateira, sweetheart, how nice it is to see you again! How beautiful you are becoming!” 

When he advanced closer, his daughter took a giant step backward, away from him. 

His smile faltered and his arms flew back to his sides, but he tried again. “Ready to take a walk through the gardens? It’s wonderful out.”

He held out his hand. Stateira looked at it before glancing at Merrythought, who was watching the scene with apprehension in her grey-green eyes. There was something else there, too, that Stateira couldn’t place, but that was almost kind. 

“Stateira?”

She took a step forward, pointedly ignoring her father’s hand. Merrythought excused herself and left them in the corridor. Reluctantly, Stateira trailed behind her father out of the castle. 

On her very first day at Hogwarts, Beryl Fawley had approached her and asked her in front of every Slytherin in the common room if her father was the same Lochlan McElroy that ran off on his pureblood wife for a muggle. 

Eleven-year-old Stateira, cheeks burning, had stood tall and said to everyone, “That Lochlan McElroy is no father of mine. The Traverses do not accept blood traitors into our family.” That had quelled any discussion or teasing on the spot, but it still remained to date that she was not like the others in her House. Her robes were secondhand and her father was a blood traitor. Her marks wouldn’t help that, either. 

The gardens were spectacular like always. Deep burgundy, mustard yellow, and faded brown leaves dotted the ground, while the surrounding bushes and grass were still a lush green due to a wet autumn thus far. Here and there, the cobblestone walkways were dotted with benches. Some were singular, and some were in pairs with a table in between so families could eat treats, play chess, or get into deep discussions while facing each other. 

Lochlan McElroy was dressed in navy blue Twilfitt robes with his auburn hair slicked back. His daughter had inherited his light skin, freckles, height, and aloofness. He motioned for them to sit on a single bench, but Stateira preferred to stand, leaning against an oak tree. This resulted in the man sitting awkwardly on the bench, looking up at her with the sun glaring him in the face. She could have taken a couple of steps away from the tree to block it out for him, but she decided not to. 

“Francesca sends her love,” he said gently. 

Francesca. The Muggle. Stateira said nothing. The Muggle didn’t let them use magic. One particularly horrid summer, 1941, Stateira and Hollis had been sent to their manor in Ireland. The reasoning behind it was to get them out of the war, where bombs were dropping about every other day, it seemed like, and to give Gran a rest. 

For nearly 12 weeks, the pureblood wizarding children had lived like muggles, and to Stateira, it seemed as though they didn’t do much aside from sit, listen to the radio, drink wine, and look pretty. Stateira, who had been around 10, and Hollis, only around three, were forbidden to play outside. “We pay a lot for those clothes, you know.” The Muggle talked a lot of clothes, makeup, and what others were spending money on. She had this awful friend, Gertrude, around and they’d smoke cigarette after cigarette, billowing out clouds of thick smoke and dirtying the children’s hair. 

Because Stateira had been isolated from her world with the full responsibility of a toddler, she often threw fits that were both physical and magical, blowing up kitchen appliances and dishes. “Get her out of here,” the Muggle had said. “I don’t want her here.” 

And the Blood Traitor had said okay. 

“How are your marks?” he asked, noticing that Stateira was starting to slip away, pressing her knuckle against her lips. 

“I sent you my OWL scores,” she said shortly. “Nothing has changed.”

“That’s excellent, sweetheart. I’m so proud. What will you be doing after Hogwarts?” 

“Auror Training.” It had slipped out before she could think. Yes, she was technically preparing for Auror Training, but Stateira doubted she could be an Auror even if she wanted to, which she absolutely did not. _Fight_ the beauty, the power, the exclusive? 

Her father’s hazel eyes widened in surprise for a moment. “Oh?” 

Stateira raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think I could do it?” 

“I didn’t say that, sweetheart.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and a tiny muggle metal-and-plastic object that made fire. His daughter wrinkled her nose, no longer bothering to hide her contempt. 

“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded. “This is _Hogwarts_. You aren’t allowed to do that here. Are you no longer a wizard, McElroy?”

Her father stiffened, tucking his things back into his robes. “Why do you address me that way? You’re a McElroy, too, you know.” 

She shook her head. “I’m a Travers.” 

He let out a sigh, and suddenly the wrinkles around his eyes were plainly visible. “Still got your brother’s ideas, have you?” 

“Of course I do. They’re more than just ideas, McElroy.” 

Her father tried a different tactic. “How is Calpurnia?” 

“Fine,” Stateira said. “I think she might finally recover from her husband leaving her dirt poor with three kids sometime this century.” 

McElroy placed his head in his hands for a moment, balancing his elbows on his knees. “Stateira, I’d rather not have a row.” 

“Then why did you come?” she asked bluntly. 

He looked up at her, squinting in the harsh sunlight. “I fear that you will follow the same path as he. Alexander. I know how close you two were. I just, I cannot grasp how he could do something so _evil_. How did he fall that far? Your mother—"

“Leave my mother out of this,” Stateira snapped. “How did he fall that far? Well, you weren’t exactly there to catch him, were you? Too busy lying in that castle with a filthy muggle.” 

All color drained from her father’s face. “Sweetheart, if you’re still angry because—"

“Do _not_ call me sweetheart, McElroy. My name is Stateira.” She was aware that the others in the gardens had gone mysteriously quiet; only the birds chirping filled the air. 

“Stateira. Why are you behaving like this?” 

“Like what?” she asked quietly, starting to shake. “Like I’ve just lost my brother this past March? How am I supposed to behave, McElroy?” 

He stood up and walked over to her. “Your brother was a murderer, Stateira. He followed the wrong path.” 

“Of course the blood traitor would say that,” she retorted. 

A pained look passed over her father’s face. “Is that what you think of me?” 

“Obviously, what else are you? What is a man who leaves his pureblood, Sacred 28 wife and three devoted children to lie down with a filthy, disgusting muggle? You’re worse than a mudblood. You’re not even a wizard!” 

She heard leaves crunching as footsteps approached. They turned to see Florence Bones and her muggle parents gaping at her in horror. 

With a final glare of loathing at her father, Stateira stalked off back into the castle. As she strode down the corridor to the common room, her ears started ringing again and the portraits were slightly blurring…

“MCELROY!” a shrill voice howled, stopping her cold. Merrythought was stomping toward her, red-faced and snarling. “How dare you speak like that in front of all those families? That is how you choose to represent Hogwarts? You’re coming with me!” 

She seized the girl’s upper arm and marched her further down the dungeons. Stateira thought she was being taken to Slughorn, but they passed the Potions classroom, going straight to the Defense one. Merrythought rapped on the door twice before throwing it open and dragging Stateira inside. 

“Professor Riddle? We’ve got a situation with one of your Slytherins.” 

The door to Riddle’s office swung open and he walked out, quill in hand. 

“She was causing mayhem in the gardens, using foul language!” Merrythought declared, shoving Stateira slightly forward. “She’s a prefect, no less! How completely mortifying for Hogwarts!” 

Riddle stared at the girl who had uttered maybe four sentences in his class. “What on Earth did she say?” 

“Go on,” Merrythought barked. “Tell your professor what you said.” 

Stateira took a deep breath. “I called my father a blood traitor, sir.” 

Riddle raised his eyebrows as Merrythought tapped her on the shoulder, urging her to continue. “And?” 

“And…I used the word ‘mudblood,’ sir.”

It was impossible to read the expression on Riddle’s face. A minute passed; nobody spoke. 

“Well?” Merrythought finally demanded. “You’re her Head of House. You discipline her.” 

Stateira was surprised Slughorn had relinquished that title so easily, but then again he was always prattling on about Riddle’s amazing magical talent. She could tell she was the first Slytherin Riddle had to discipline. He paused, surveying her, before he said, “Those words are not tolerated at Hogwarts, Miss McElroy. Twenty points from Slytherin.” 

“ _Twenty_ points?” Merrythought looked like she was fighting the urge to lunge across the desk and throttle him. “Are you _serious_ , Riddle? Are you aware of how many muggleborns we have at Hogwarts?” 

“Let’s make it an even hundred then.” He smiled as if he was giving her a suggestion. “Eighty more points from Slytherin.” 

Merrythought turned her rage back on Stateira. “ _And_ detention with me on Friday, where you will write Florence Bones a letter of apology. If I ever hear you using those words again, McElroy, you’re going straight to the headmaster.” 

“Yes, Professor.” 

Merrythought stormed out, still enraged. Stateira figured it was best to give her a few minutes’ head start before leaving the classroom. Unable to look at Riddle, she kept her eyes on her lap and muttered, “Sorry for losing all those points, Professor,” before slinking away. 

“Don’t be,” he said softly behind her. “I know you’ll win them all back during lessons.” 

She turned and gave him a shy, grateful smile before slipping through the door. The rest of Slytherin, she thought, would not be so gentle on her now that Gryffindor was fresh in the lead. 

She was mistaken. At breakfast the next morning—she’d been too embarrassed to show her face during supper on Visiting Day—she poked her head in the Great Hall, tentatively gauging her housemates’ reactions. Sequitur Delmont spotted her first, pointed her out to the other sixth-years, and waved her over. Then, to her complete astonishment, half of the Slytherin table stood and started clapping and hooting as she entered the Hall. 

Although her face was burning red, Stateira’s confidence shot up and there was a bit of a swagger in her walk as she reached the table. Space was immediately cleared between Delmont and Aurelia Parkinson, and plates filled with eggs and bacon appeared in front of her. Inconspicuously, her eyes traveled to the staff table, but only Slughorn, Riddle, and Vector were there, and none of them seemed to have any interest. 

As the other tables glared on, the Slytherins chatted amicably about their families while Stateira only listened, not having much to say since, evidently, the whole school knew about how her Visiting Day went. 

Antonia Longbottom’s light hazel eyes were on her; Stateira could feel them drilling into her. _Well, let her stare_ , she thought bitterly. She was through with answering to everyone about every single thing she did. 

The next night, Stateira completed her detention and delivered her letter of apology to Florence Bones, although she wasn’t sorry and she didn’t see a point when she hadn’t called Bones herself a mudblood. The letter was deemed sincere enough by Merrythought. However, whether Bones accepted it or not was irrelevant, since it wasn’t enough for the Gryffindors. 

Another day passed until Herbology rolled around, where Stateira was confronted by Ignatius Prewett and Bruin Weasley. 

They were digging through the soil of Moly flowers, whose roots gave off an oily secretion that solidified into clear pearl-like balls. These little balls were almost impossible to see, so it took a lot of bare-handed sifting to collect them all. These balls were crushed up and added to many healing potions. After digging, they had to polish them until they shone. If they’d collected enough, they’d be using them for the Wiggenweld Potion in Slughorn’s class later that week. 

The students had been planning on working independently, but at the last second and seemingly for no reason, Professor Groot had them form pairs with the person sitting across from them. For Stateira, unfortunately, that person was Bruin Weasley. As soon as they’d chosen their plant, he turned to her and asked, “You’re not going to tell Groot you won’t work with a blood traitor?”

“That is ridiculous,” she replied coldly. “As long as you don’t come within five feet of me, we shall not have any problems.”

Weasley shook his head in disgust. “Don’t worry, Princess.” 

Stateira rolled her eyes. “Are you digging or polishing?”

“It’s up to you, Your Majesty.”

It was terribly difficult to practice self-control when all of these blood traitors were keen on rankling her. Without thinking, her mouth opened and spit out, “Well, why don’t you dig and I’ll polish?” Her voice came out falsely sweet and her hands clapped together; she appeared to be making a suggestion. “Since your hands are already filthy, like your blood.” 

Weasley, looking outraged, stood up, ready to start shouting. 

“Aw, are you going to run to Merrythought?” she taunted, a trace of laughter in her voice. “Are your little feelings hurt?” 

“He doesn’t have to run anywhere,” Prewett cut in out of nowhere, his hands already filled with soil. “What would be the point? She’ll just take you to Riddle, where you’ll bat your eyelashes and get out of it.” At Weasley’s slightly confused expression, he added, “She’s his favorite.” 

“Aw, ickle Prewett is jealous,” Stateira said scathingly. “If you were half as competent as I am, perhaps you’d see similar results.” 

“Oh please, it’s got nothing to do with your competency.”

“Erm, Ignatius?” Edwina Boot, his partner, asked timidly. “Are you going to begin digging?” She kept her head down, uncomfortably aware of the discussion she was interrupting. She had no ill feelings toward Stateira McElroy; they got on well enough as Defense partners, but Edwina was a half-blood. It wasn’t clear what Slytherins thought of half-bloods, but at least they did not have a harsh slur for them. 

Prewett ignored her completely, still goading the other girl. “We all see how you adore Riddle, the way you hang on to his every word. You’d get on your hands and knees if he asked you.”

“Shut up, you prat!” 

Weasley’s eyes were lit up with curiosity, not having witnessed what Prewett was referring to. Just then, Abraxas Malfoy appeared, glaring at the two Gryffindors. 

“What is going on here? Is he bothering you?” he asked Stateira. 

Although she shook her head, Prewett snorted. “Another savior, McElroy? You sure are popular. I wonder what it is about you that’s winning them over. It sure isn’t your charm.” 

“Shut the hell up, wanker, and leave her alone,” Malfoy snarled, pulling out his wand. Prewett and Weasley both reached for theirs, Delmont made his way over, and necks were craning around Moly flowers to have a glimpse of the action. 

“MR. MALFOY AND MR. PREWETT!” Groot bellowed, rushing over. Although Mataranga Groot was tall and weedy like many of her plants, she had a rather intimidating demeanor when she was worked up. “Wands away AT ONCE! Get back to your flowers and _do what you’re supposed to be doing_. Twenty points each from Slytherin and Gryffindor.” 

“Wow, Slytherin’s losing points faster than the earth’s rotation,” Weasley muttered, but Stateira ignored him, smug from Malfoy’s defense and neither he nor Prewett provoked her for the rest of the lesson. 

Later on that week in Defense class, the 10 NEWT students divided into pairs and practiced. This time, the defenders had to strengthen their shields against stronger curses. Now that all casting was nonverbal, there was no set beginning time, so both sides had to be vigilant and quick. 

Stateira waited until Edwina Boot had casted her charm and her eyes started to drift before raising her wand. _Stupefy!_ Instead of the red light bouncing off Edwina’s shield as expected, it cut right through and hit her in the face. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious. 

“Oh—!” Stateira cried concernedly, taking a step forward, but Riddle was already there. 

“ _Rennervate_ ,” he said calmly. “Well done, Miss McElroy. Twenty points to Slytherin.” As Edwina awakened, blinking confusedly, the four Slytherin boys congratulated Stateira. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, rather proud of herself. Throughout the lesson, she consistently beat Edwina whether she was invading or defending, earning her another twenty points by the end of class. It was quite simple for her now to muster intent—all she had to do was think of the Blood Traitor. 

Best of all, which she had communicated through a snug glare at Prewett upon leaving, Slytherin was once again in the lead, since Alphard Black had earned fifty cumulative points in Charms earlier that week. Gryffindor was 10 points behind, but Stateira was confident in her fellow Slytherins to soar ahead of them.

~**~ ~**~


	3. Winter 1947-1948

For the first time in her Hogwarts education, Stateira was not returning home for winter break. Neither her mother nor her gran were allowed to Apparate out of London, so Stateira had no magical mode of transportation. She didn’t mind—Hogwarts was as good of a place as any to spend the holidays for her. Warmth, food, and privacy were always appreciated. 

Her mother and gran were under the assumption that she would be spending the holidays with the Blood Traitor. He’d written to her mum before Visiting Day letting her know of the plan. Apparently he was going to tell Stateira about it during his visit, and she was glad she hadn’t let him. 

The only other Slytherin that stayed behind was little Eileen Prince, who, according to Slughorn, was already a prodigy in Potions. She was painfully shy but smiled at Stateira every time they saw each other. Stateira made a mental note to try and make the first-year more included in Slytherin, as Eileen typically went ignored by everyone else besides Slughorn. After all, it was the prefects’ duty to look out for the younger years, which Alphard Black seemed to do with ease. 

A few other sixth-years stayed behind as well, but the only one Stateira knew was Edwina Boot. Her Defense partner approached her in the library one day shortly after break started. 

“Erm, McElroy…will you help me with something?” 

Stateira thought she meant something to do with homework or the like, since they had every class except Astronomy together. “Alright.” 

Edwina had chin-length strawberry blonde hair and very pale blonde eyebrows and lashes. Like Eileen Prince, she was very timid and quiet. “Well, erm…I wanted to ask you for a…a favor?” 

Stateira eyed her warily. “Have a seat.” She didn’t like looking up at another student, especially since Edwina was even taller than she. 

The girl obeyed, looking down at her hands as her courage faltered. Trying not to show impatience, Stateira returned to the book she was reading. She’d read it last term and wanted to copy a few lines that had struck a chord with her. 

“You see…there’s this book I would like to check out. It’s called _Harnessing the Subconscious Will_ by Marina Antipoulos. Have you heard of it?” 

Stateira shook her head, wondering what the girl’s point was. 

“It’s extremely useful and interesting. Anyway, I’d love to read it… but it’s, erm, in the Restricted Section. I tried to ask Merrythought, but she doesn’t write slips for Restricted books unless specifically used for her class.” 

“Ask Dunst, then.” Stateira still did not see where this was going. “Or Riddle. I doubt either of them have that policy.” 

“Well, I don’t think Dunst would give one,” Edwina said thoughtfully, “but Riddle might, since it’s directly related to the class. It’s got all the things he’s always talking about, you know, intent and all that. I hope it might help me in Defense…”

Stateira set her quill down as Edwina’s point started to sink in. “You want me to ask Riddle for a slip.” 

“Well…yes.” Edwina looked away, biting her lip. 

Already suspecting the answer, Stateira asked, “Why do you need me to ask him? He wouldn’t say no to you.” 

The girl’s face colored. “Well…you know. He’ll certainly give it to you since you’re his—he is rather fond of you. I mean, you are the best student in the class. Well, maybe you’re tied with Delmont; he’s rather good, too…” 

Stateira let out a sigh. “Alright, write down the name and author of the book.” She turned over her piece of parchment and slid it along with the quill across the table. “But let me be clear. I am not Riddle’s _favorite_. Ignatius Prewett is an obnoxious fool and you shouldn’t listen to anything he says.”

“Done,” Edwina said happily, jotting down the information. The look on her face suggested that she was not only excited to get the book, but that she didn’t have to gather the courage to ask Riddle anything directly. Stateira reckoned that she, like three-quarters of the older girls at Hogwarts, fancied him a bit. He was extremely handsome, she had to admit, but she knew from experience—namely the Blood Traitor—that the more handsome and/or rich the man was, the more of a selfish prat. This logic could be used toward Abraxas Malfoy and Icarus Yaxley as well. 

“Alright, give me about an hour,” she said, taking back the quill and parchment. “Let me finish this up first.” 

"Oh no, there's no rush," Edwina assured her enthusiastically. "I don’t think he’s even here. I haven’t seen him in the Great Hall. He might be away, at his home. Say, do you think he’s married?”

Stateira shook her head; not only did she doubt Riddle was married, but she remembered that his parents were dead, so he most likely did not have family to visit. She didn’t say this to Edwina, only, “Well, I’ll go round to his office later.” 

“Thanks, Mc—Stateira. You’re a doll!”

Before Stateira could make a face, Edwina scuttled out of the library. 

When the words blurred in front of her eyes and her hand started cramping from gripping the quill, Stateira decided it was best to pack up and find something else to do. More out of curiosity than obligation to Edwina, she headed down to the dungeons. As her footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, she briefly wondered what her mum and gran were up to. No doubt sitting around the wood-burning stove, glum and silent, assuming her mother had risen out of bed. Yes, Hogwarts was definitely preferable over that. 

Expecting the Defense classroom to be empty, she threw open the door, strode in, and stopped short when she saw Riddle at his desk, watching her. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Professor!” she gasped, flushing. “I didn’t realize you…” 

“It’s quite alright, Miss McElroy,” he said calmly. He pointed his quill at a chair near his desk. “Have a seat. Is there something you want to ask me?” 

“Erm, yes.” Stateira smoothed down her skirt as she sat in the chair. Not wanting to look at Riddle’s face or notes—although she was intrigued by both—she toyed with the piece of parchment Edwina had written on. “I would like to check out a book, but it’s from the Restricted Section.” She was glad to hear more confidence in her voice than Edwina had, but her hand slightly shook as she placed the parchment on the desk. 

Riddle picked it up and glanced at it. “Ah, yes, a very good choice. You will find that every layer of the mind contributes to effective spell-casting." He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a booklet of permission slips. As he copied down the author’s name, Stateira realized with a jolt that he was sure to recognize Edwina’s small, straight-lined penmanship, very different from her own loopy script. But if he noticed that, he didn’t say anything. 

“You might want to wait until after the holidays, as you won’t be able to take the book home with you,” he said as he passed her the slip.

“I—oh. I’m, er, staying here for the entire break, sir,” she told him, picturing her mum and gran again. “Are you going home?” 

His face hardened for half a second before he gave her a small smile. “I am home. Hogwarts has been my home since my first year.”

There were many other questions that statement brought up, but Stateira knew she could not ask them, so she simply nodded. “Hogwarts is a wonderful place. Well, I’ll let you get back to your work. Thank you for the slip, Professor.” 

“You’re welcome,” Riddle replied, already continuing his notes. “Enjoy the book and let me know if you have any questions.” 

“I will, sir.” 

On the way back up from which she came, Stateira wondered whether she should’ve wished him happy holidays while simultaneously kicking herself for asking him such a personal question. Well, it hadn’t been _that_ personal; she was trying to be polite, but with Riddle everything was a mystery. He was neither friendly nor unfriendly, and there was a detachment from his students, even the Slytherins. Where Prewett had gotten this “favorite” idea from was beyond her, but she supposed it was because of his non-reaction to the Blood Traitor fiasco. 

Her plan was to hunt down Edwina and give her the slip, but she looked down at it and realized that Riddle had written her name on it, so she’d have to be the one to check out _Harnessing the Subconscious Will_. “Wow, someone has spelt my name correctly,” she remarked quietly herself, heading back to the library. 

She did not find Edwina right away, so she brought the book back to her room and read it straight through, which took about a week. 

~**~ ~**~

Alphard Black and his older brother, Cygnus, and cousin, Orion, sat in Cygnus’ room, bored, in the Dullest and Most Stifling House of Black. Alphard and Cygnus’ mother, Irma, forbade them to make a single move now that their finest robes were on. Alphard hated those damn dress robes, because Irma watched them beadily for not only rough-housing but spilling of food on them. This constant threat did not make for a pleasant meal. 

“At least we’ll get to see Abraxas,” Alphard said into the silent, uncomfortable air. He sat on the bed, Cygnus on the desk chair, and Orion on the floor. “He says he’s got something to tell us.” 

Cygnus rolled his eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s illuminating.” 

“His father probably bribed Dippet to let him graduate earlier,” Orion added. 

Alphard bit his lip. It was true that Abraxas could be a pompous prat, but in addition to well-connected and smooth with girls, he could give Alphard some difficulty if he went against him. And so Alphard was reluctant to join in on the heckling. 

Their smiles quickly vanished as the door swung open and Alphard’s older sister, Walburga, barged in. 

“Nice of you to leave me with Mum to go have a collective wank,” she snapped at her brothers. “Cygnus, lay off the waving lotion; it’ll hardly work wonders with a face like yours.” 

Walburga was in her early twenties and still unmarried, which was no mystery to anyone who spent more than 15 minutes with her. She, like Druella Rosier, had thick blonde curls and porcelain skin, but Walburga’s eyes were smaller and almost always narrowed in dislike. Due to her temper tantrums, vicious insults, and general sourness, she was having a bit of trouble finding a suitable Sacred 28 husband. Rumor had it that Felix Lestrange flatly told his parents _not a chance in hell_ when they’d proposed the idea to him. 

“What do you want, dear sister?” Cygnus asked dully without rancor, unfazed by her outbursts by that point. 

“Go downstairs and sit at the tables. The Malfoys have just arrived.” Her brown eyes fell on Orion, and suddenly her tone changed entirely. “Orion, dear, it’s best not to sit on the floor. Mum and Aunt Melania will have a cow if they see your robes wrinkled before supper.” 

The three boys stared at her in shock, but without another word, Walburga turned on her heel, her flowered dress robes swinging out, and disappeared down the hall. 

Any type of conversation when Cassius Malfoy and Pollux Black got together went one, two, or all of three ways: a rehash of their youth, since they’d known each other since their pre-Hogwarts years, derisive remarks about how the Ministry was run, or boasting about rare, valuable artifacts recently purchased. This evening was no different. The adults, including Walburga, Cygnus, Orion, and Abraxas, had more than a few glasses of firewhiskey, but Alphard did not have any. He didn’t turn 17 until April, and while some other parents may have looked the other way, Irma Black wouldn’t dream of letting her underage son disgrace her. 

As a result, Alphard and, strangely, Abraxas were the only ones fully coherent by the end of the meal. “Come on, let’s go to your room,” he muttered to Cygnus, who then nodded to Alphard before excusing themselves. Alphard gave a moment before doing the same on the pretense of escorting Orion to one of the spare bedrooms, as his cousin was slightly wobbling. 

After nearly dragging Orion up the stairs, where all of the portraits of ancestors past either sneered at them or gave out cries of disgust, Alphard arrived in Cygnus’ room to find that he missed a good portion of Abraxas’ news. 

“An English bloke?” Cygnus was asking, dark eyes now wide with awe instead of hazy like they’d been 10 minutes previously. 

“Yeah…I reckon he went to Hogwarts…but we’d have heard of him by now…” 

“I wonder,” Cygnus said thoughtfully, “if he’s the same bloke who graduated in '45 that said he wanted to rule over muggles.”

“Who are you talking about?” Alphard asked, letting go of his cousin and sitting on the bed. 

Abraxas turned to him, staring into his eyes. “You’ve got to _promise_ you won’t speak a word of this to anyone at Hogwarts.”

“I promise,” Alphard replied quickly. 

“I swear on my mother’s life, Black, I will curse you…”

“I said, I promise.” 

Abraxas hesitated for effect before saying, “I heard there’s a new Dark wizard rising.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“You heard right.” Abraxas’ grey eyes were lit up with glee. “It gets better. The Dark wizard wants to purify the wizarding race, and Lestrange says he’s even more powerful than Dumbledore or Grindelwald.”

Alphard’s mind was fuzzy, uncomprehending. “Purify the wizarding race?” he repeated dumbly. 

“Come on, brother, don’t be dense,” Cygnus snapped impatiently. “Purify—to make pure. To get rid of the filthy mudbloods and half-breeds from our society. Lestrange says even half-bloods have their rightful place, and that’s under a pureblood’s thumb.” 

Alphard was feeling slightly ill; he just couldn’t ever seem to muster up the same hatred of muggles as the rest of his family. Of course he would never fraternize with any, but his dying wish wasn’t to see them all under control either. 

“Any idea what this Dark wizard’s plans are?” Cygnus asked. 

Abraxas shook his head. “All I know is that he’s gathering followers and Lestrange is one of them. I’m debating whether or not to join if he grows in power. Dad will kill me if I get caught doing anything illegal.” 

Whomever this Dark wizard was, Alphard suspected he couldn’t be up to any sort of good if Lestrange backed him up. Felix Lestrange was odd, to put it nicely, and Alphard thought privately that he was not all there in terms of mental stability. 

“Well, let me know when you find out anything else, will you?” Cygnus said. “And on another topic, kindly stay the hell away from Druella Rosier. She’s mine.”

Abraxas stared at him. “Alright—?” 

“I’ve heard you’ve taken a fancy to her.” 

“No, mate, that’s Yaxley, not me, but don’t worry, the poor bloke hasn’t got a chance anyway. McElroy’s the one I’m keen on lately, especially after that blood traitor denouncement.” He was grinning mischievously now. “I wouldn’t mind her taking out all that pent-up frustration on me.”

“Alexander’s sister?” Cygnus asked. “You know they’re dead poor right now, yeah? That whole family’s mental. Only the grandmother is part of the Sacred 28.”

Alphard looked around and realized his cousin had gone off somewhere. “Where’s Orion?” 

The other two shrugged, unconcerned. “Probably lying in the corridor,” Cygnus chuckled. “He was more than a bit pissed, wasn’t he?” 

Anticipating an ear-shattering reprimand from his mother, Alphard decided it was best to collect Orion before any of the parents left the dining hall. He excused himself and set out to search for him. 

He found Orion about 15 minutes later in his aunt Dorea’s room in a compromising position with his older sister. Walburga’s blouse was fully unbuttoned and Orion was kissing her chest, sliding his hand up her skirt. Her head was thrown back as she panted, eyes closed…until they opened to see Alphard standing in the doorway, transfixed. 

“BUGGER OFF, YOU LITTLE—!”

Alphard slammed the door on Walburga’s last word and fled down the hall. Once safely locked in his own room, he fell face-first on his bed and let out a sigh of disgust. They were both adults; they could do what they wanted, but still they used to take baths together. He shuddered at the burning image of what he’d just witnessed. The worst of it was that he knew none of his parents, aunts, and uncles would be concerned about two first cousins marrying. Irma would only feel relief at Walburga finally finding a pureblood husband. 

_Tonjours Pur_ , Alphard thought snidely, _even when our ideals are filthy._

 

Twenty-one years ago, on 31st December 1926, a dying woman stumbled into a muggle orphanage and gave birth to Tom Marvolo Riddle. Right around this time of night, in fact. His father had left him before his birth and his mother had died shortly after it. Tom hated his birthday, and he hated thinking about his pathetic parents. He hadn’t needed them or anyone else, anyway. 

He poured himself a glass of firewhiskey and tossed it back all at once. Hogwarts was finally still, and he could sit in his office as long as he liked without Slughorn or one of his ridiculous students bothering him. 

In addition to that good fortune, his faithful Knight had sent him a gift: a book that was released without any publication but was sure to stir up quite a reaction in the near future. It had a picture of an old bearded man with half-moon spectacles on the cover and was titled _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._

_"Stripping away the popular image of serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Francine Skeeter reveals the disturbed childhood, the lawless youth, the lifelong feuds and the guilty secrets Dumbledore carried to his grave."_

Tom closed the book, stared at the old man for a moment, his once-enemy, and glanced at the author’s photo. Francine Skeeter, a blonde with deep red lips, was winking and smiling broadly. 

He took another shot of firewhiskey, relaxed in his desk chair, and opened the book back up to the first page. It wouldn’t be such a bad birthday after all. He’d have to send this Skeeter woman some flowers. 

~**~ ~**~

January 1948 was cold and bleak, but there were bright spots: a tentative friendship with Edwina Boot and Stateira’s rapid progress in nonverbal spell-casting. Her spells were not much more powerful than average, but the speed at which she conjured them and strategies formed in her head made for very effective dueling. 

The older students were often having discussions about a newly-released book, _The Life of Albus Dumbledore_ or something like that. Stateira was not interested—she avoided all topics about Dumbledore. It was not as if she had any sort of loathing of him. He certainly had been clever, but he would’ve rather had helped muggles than his own kind. 

Edwina was much less shy around her now, and they spoke of a multitude of topics, such as Defense and other classes, _Harnessing the Subconscious Will_ , and events at Hogwarts. The only topic they didn’t talk about was their families. 

Stateira wasn’t sure if she wanted another Ravenclaw friend. Antonia Longbottom was a Ravenclaw, and their falling-out had occurred over their different views on muggles. Stateira had told Antonia that she was naïve and didn’t understand the real world. She also told her about the dreadful summer of ’41 with the Muggle, and Antonia had replied that maybe Stateira ought to drop her preconceived notions about muggles. Thus, Stateira had dropped her. Fortunately, Edwina didn’t seem to care about her feelings of muggles. 

Only two people had an issue with their friendship: Antonia Longbottom and her apparent boyfriend, Bruin Weasley. A confrontation in early February would lead to what was epically known as the Weasley Weasel Incident for years to come.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Antonia hissed in Stateira’s ear while they were on their way to the Great Hall for supper. Antonia had caught up with her after her Charms lesson. “But stay away from Edwina Boot. She’s a good girl.” 

Stateira turned and looked into her former friend’s narrowed, light hazel eyes. “And I’m not a ‘good girl,’ Longbottom?” she asked coldly. “Why is that, because I’m a Slytherin?” 

Antonia opened her mouth to snarl a reply, but she was interrupted by Weasley and Prewett appearing at her side out of nowhere. “Is everything alright, love?” 

“Everything is fine, Weasley, move along,” Stateira replied tartly.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, McElroy,” he snapped. Beside him, the beginnings of a smile was starting to form on Prewett’s face. 

“Everything is fine, Bruin,” Antonia said. 

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Come, darling, let’s have a seat.” He tossed a nasty look at Stateira as he gently pulled Antonia away. 

“Actually, ‘darling’ and I are having a conversation, Weasley,” Stateira said, keeping her voice falsely cheerful. “So if you would kindly sod off, that would be most helpful.” 

He went still, cutting off Prewett and the others behind them, and stood between Antonia and Stateira, facing the latter and glaring at her intensely. “Ignatius is right. You’re not much of a charmer.”

“Get out of my face, blood traitor.” 

“Bruin.” Antonia’s voice had a tinge of worry to it. “Let’s go. This conversation is over.” 

Weasley ignored her. “No wonder you’re always by yourself. Even the Slytherins don’t like you.” 

“I said, get out of my face, blood traitor.” Stateira couldn’t hear her words over the ringing in her ears. Beneath her Mary Janes, the floor started to rumble. 

“What are you going to do?” Weasley asked quietly. “Shoot me with a killer, like your dead brother did to Dumbledore? What a hero he was, torturing and killing the best wizard of the 20th century with his pathetic cronies.”

Prewett, who was feeling the rumble under his feet, took a step forward to interject. “Come on, mate, let’s just—"

“ _Incarcerous!_ ” As soon as the end of the ropes left Stateira’s wand, a Shield Charm appeared, blocking Weasley’s Stunning Spell. Prewett fell to the floor, writhing in rage, as the ropes tightened themselves around his arms and legs. 

Ducking around a frozen Antonia, Stateira lifted her charm and shot an orange light right between Weasley’s shoulder blades. His tall, lanky frame immediately shrunk until he was less than a foot tall, his nose and mouth grew pointier, and hair covered his body. He was now a ferret, complete with whiskers and beady black eyes. 

A few of the surrounding students were roaring with laughter, but Stateira did not see them. Everything surrounding the ferret was a complete blur, and all of it was tinged red, as if her face was behind a thin veil. 

She levitated the ferret about 10 feet and then quickly pulled her wand away as she saw Antonia lunging toward her, reaching out and gripping her arm. _Relashio!_ Statiera thought and sent the younger girl flying backward, hitting the wall. As her foot stomped on the floor, a loud shake brought the surrounding students to their knees. 

“Get Merrythought or someone!” Prewett bawled, still tied up and shaking violently with fear. Stateira raised the ferret up as grey smoke flowed out of her wand and wrapped around the animal, making him writhe and squeal in pain as it twisted around him…

 

Edwina Boot dashed to the Great Hall and stopped short in front of the double doors, trying to catch her breath. Tears gathered into her eyes, threatening to fall, but luckily they receded with every breath she took. Knowing her facial expression might alarm people, she opened one of the doors and slipped inside. About 99% of Hogwarts was sitting at their respective tables, chatting and eating. Heart still skipping beats, Edwina carefully walked down the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables as she approached her destination, the staff table. Professors Merrythought and Vector stopped their conversation at the sight of the white-faced, normally calm sixth-year. 

“I—I’m sorry to bother you, Professors,” Edwina choked out as quietly as she could. “But there’s something going on in the corridor…”

Against her will, tears sprang to Edwina’s eyes again as Professor Merrythought jumped up and quickly strode around the table. Edwina didn’t want to grass on Stateira, considering the girl her friend, but she was likely to kill Bruin Weasley if someone didn’t get ahold of her. Edwina was terrified for Bruin, but at the same time, she understood Stateira’s wrath. Contrary to what many of the other students seemed to think, the actions of her brother were not her fault, and she was clearly suffering from them. 

Edwina herself was no stranger to suffering and loss. In 1938, her mum, a German muggle, had contracted tuberculosis and passed away, leaving Edwina, her sister Callista, and their father alone in their old shack in Ottery St. Catchpole. Callista was young enough to bounce back quickly enough, but Edwina missed her mother deeply and her father even more so. He still went to work faithfully six days per week, but once he came home, he walked straight to the armchair and downed pint after pint, nearly unaware of his two daughters. It was haunting to watch; Edwina dreaded going back home for the summer break. Luckily a neighboring family, the Lovegoods, often helped take care of Callista while Edwina was at Hogwarts. 

As soon as she and Merrythought left the Great Hall, they felt the floor tremoring and a green mist stung their eyes and throats. “There!” Edwina screamed, and the professor saw a cloud of grey smoke in the air with some type of rat twisting around, screeching in pain. On the floor, about eight students were rolling around, unable to get up no matter how hard they tried. Then they saw the tall, rigid figure of Stateira McElroy, one hand holding her raised wand, the other balled up and pressed to her mouth, blood dripping down her chin. 

“ _FINITE INCANTATEM!_ ” Professor Merrythought bellowed as someone grabbed Stateira’s robes and yanked, causing her to stumble and lift the smoke. It started to dissipate as Bruin Weasley, back to his original form but now bloodied and bruised, fell to the floor, whimpering. Next to him, Prewett was still bound and struggling. 

Professor Merrythought’s voice came out rather calm for the circumstance. “Miss McElroy, lower your wand.”

The girl’s face was still a mask of rage, but she followed the command. She didn’t seem to be able to unlock her muscles, so Professor Merrythought took a moment to survey the shell-shocked students, shivering Weasley, and the Gryffindor prefect slumped against the wall, unmoving. 

“What have you done, you wretched girl?” Professor Merrythought whispered. 

 

As she was being marched down the hall, held by the upper arm by Merrythought, Stateira’s breathing slightly slowed, but her fists remained clenched, her chest heaved, her vision was blurred, and that god-awful ringing pierced her eardrums. 

“Get back in the Great Hall!” she barked to the heads poking through the double doors. “Tom! Meet me in Armando’s office right away, please!” The words sounded muffled through the ringing, and Stateira’s eyes were so slit that she couldn’t see where she was going. 

Oddly, the gargoyle statue guarding the headmaster’s office calmed her down enough for the ringing to subside so she could think clearly. As Merrythought nudged her up the stairs, she gained enough sense to pull out a handkerchief and wipe the blood from her chin. Wrapping it around her swollen, bitten finger, she followed the professor inside Dippet’s office. 

“Armando, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Merrythought said, even though Dippet appeared to be doing nothing at all prior to their arrival, “but I found her terrorizing a Gryffindor prefect. She transfigured him into a ferret and caused him great harm with some type of Dark spell, knocked another student unconscious, and tied yet another in ropes.”

Dippet was staring goggle-eyed at the girl in front of him, imploring her to sit. She obeyed, fists still clenched. Merrythought held her wand, looking like she wanted to snap it in two. “This is the _same_ Slytherin prefect who used racial slurs on Visiting Day last term. I’ve had enough, Armando. I want her out.”

The headmaster looked startled. “Out?”

“Yes, as in, out of Hogwarts. She is violent, unstable, and clearly a danger to other students.”

Stateira was having difficulty breathing again, and deep inside her ear canals, the ringing was starting back up.

“As serious as this is, I don’t think—Ah, Tom.”

“Sorry I’m late, I got caught up breaking up a duel between two students,” Riddle said from behind her. She kept her eyes on her knees, not wanting to see his disgusted expression. She’d earned many points, praises, and looks of approval from him recently, and now all of that was about to get tossed out. “What’s happened?” 

“Your little Slytherin put Bruin Weasley in the Hospital Wing by transfiguring him into an animal and knocking him around. This is acceptable behavior for a _prefect_? She needs her badge taken and her trunk packed!”

“Alright, let’s take a deep breath,” Dippet suggested tiredly, looking uncomfortable. 

“Yes, sorry about that, Armando.” Merrythought’s rapid change of tone jarred Stateira out of her fit. She lifted her eyes to sneak a look at the older woman, who was glowering at Riddle. “This is the second time in six months that Miss McElroy here has been caught terrorizing other students. I strongly recommend her expulsion.” 

“I’d hardly call that terrorizing, Galatea,” Riddle said smoothly. “Bruin Weasley is known to provoke other students, Slytherins in particular.”

“I will not stand here and argue what constitutes terrorizing, _Tom_. She is a prefect; she should know to show exemplary behavior at all times.”

“She has shown exemplary behavior for six years, _Galatea_. I see no benefit to tossing out such a bright student over one incident.”

“This is the second incident, and don’t you think her marks shouldn’t excuse her vicious attacks, _Tom_?” 

They were spitting each other’s names out as if the taste of them were bitter on their tongues. Dippet and Stateira were watching them apprehensively, speechless. 

“Of course not, Galatea, but I, along with Horace and Julius, believe Miss McElroy is much more of an asset than a burden.”

Stateira’s mouth opened slightly, but she didn’t dare to even breathe, not wanting to draw attention to herself. If there was a chance she was not going to be expelled…

“Well, at least take her badge then!” Merrythought burst out. “We can’t have this behavior from a prefect!” 

Now Dippet looked even more stricken. “Hogwarts has never rescinded a prefect’s badge before…”

“As it shouldn’t,” Riddle said, addressing Dippet. “She has already earned that badge. If this is very out of the ordinary behavior for such a student, perhaps we should be asking what the motive is instead of punishing her? I understand Miss McElroy has recently lost her brother.”

“Her brother was…”

Merrythought trailed off at the dangerous look on Riddle’s face. Stateira was desperately fighting the urge to bite her finger, eyes wide and hopeful. 

“Are you insinuating that her brother’s conviction has somehow exempted her from the pain of loss, Galatea?”

“No, I merely—"

“Enough!” Dippet blurted suddenly, surprising even himself. “We will neither expel Miss McElroy at this time nor revoke her badge, but she needs to be properly punished so this never happens again.”

Abandoning pretense, Stateira dropped her head into her hands, sighing in relief. 

“Yes, _properly_ ,” Merrythought emphasized, gaining strength again. “None of this ’20 points’ codswallop.”

“I assume you’ve already taken points, Galatea?” There was a trace of amusement in Riddle’s voice now; he seemed to enjoy when she was all riled up. “I will take care of the rest, as I am her Head of House, remember?”

For a moment, Merrythought looked flustered, but she recovered quickly. “No, I haven’t taken points; I was quite busy getting her under control. You need to actually punish her, Tom.”

“Very well.” He turned to Stateira and looked at her full-on for the first time since his arrival. “One hundred and fifty points from Slytherin and detention, my office, once a week for the rest of term.”

“For the rest of term?” Stateira echoed before she could clap a hand over her mouth. Term was another _four months long_ , which meant about 16 detentions. 

“Yes, Miss McElroy, for the rest of term,” Riddle said firmly before turning back to the other two. “If we’re done here, I’ll be taking her to my office to discuss her detention schedule.”

Merrythought looked like she wanted to protest, but there wouldn’t be a point. Dippet was already agreeing, ready to place the incident in the past. 

Now Stateira’s upper arm was held by Riddle as he took such long strides that she nearly had to jog to keep up. The walk from the headmaster’s office to his seemed to stretch on to eternity. Once they were in the classroom, he wordlessly pointed to a chair in front of his desk as he closed the door and went around the desk. 

She sat down and looked up, saying, “Oh, Professor, thank you so much…” and stopped short when she saw that Riddle’s dark eyebrows were joined and his lips were tightened as he glared at her. He smacked his palms against the desk, making her wince, and leaned over it, slightly above eye-level with her. 

“Imagine what an _extraordinary_ witch you could be if you had a single ounce of self-control,” he hissed. 

Her eyes widened not only in fear, but there was a bit of flattery there, that he, of all people, thought she was capable of being extraordinary. 

“You’ve got the talent, the strength, it’s all there,” he continued. “Your brother had it, too, and I expected you to be like him, but you are reckless and impulsive. You need to control yourself.”

“I don’t know how,” she whispered, looking down and trying to blink tears away. 

Embarrassed by her weakness, her face sank into her hands again as the first tear leaked out. She couldn’t help it; everything seemed to be pushing her down: Alexander’s death, the Blood Traitor incident, Antonia Longbottom’s disdain, the abrupt end of her friendship with Edwina Boot… All of these things swirling around, all of these feelings, but what to do with them? 

“Miss McElroy…Stateira.” Riddle’s voice was closer. He’d walked around the desk and was standing nearby, to the right but still in front of her. She uncovered her face and, seeing that her handkerchief was a bloody mess, wiped her cheeks on the sleeve of her robe. 

“Sorry for crying,” she muttered, staring straight ahead. On the wall behind the desk there was a painting of the castle and grounds, the Black Lake on one side and the Forbidden Forest on the other. She wondered who’d painted it. 

“It’s alright,” Riddle said patiently. “All 16-year-old girls cry. I’ve never heard of one that doesn’t.”

She smiled weakly, still too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

“Stateira, look at me.” 

Tears were clinging to her eyelashes, but she didn’t wipe them for fear of smearing her mascara. Riddle was standing with his arms folded across his chest. “Everything you’re feeling now can be molded to what you want to use it for. Not just for crying or destroying first-floor bathrooms.” He smiled slightly at her shocked expression. “You can channel it into your magic. If it’s strong enough, you will find that you can bend the world to your needs. Many great wizards, such as Grindelwald, have used their unfortunate surroundings as ammunition, partly to become more powerful and partly to ensure that their suffering has truly come to an end.”

“How?” She was rigid with awe now, the bathroom incident forgotten. “Can you teach me to channel it, Professor?”

“It cannot be formally taught, unfortunately. What I can do is teach you powerful spells that are…not normally taught here, and you can build your control through those.”

“Oh, like Legilimency?” Stateira sat up straighter with an excited gleam in her eyes. “Won’t you please teach me that, Professor?”

A slight frown crossed his face. “From where did you take the idea that I know Legilimency?”

“Well firstly, you know everything, and second, no one knows about the first-floor bathroom.”

“Actually, I’d deduced it was you who destroyed the bathroom after witnessing the same uncontrolled magic in the corridor on Mr. Weasley.” 

Stateira wasn’t sure she believed him, but his relaxed tone encouraged her. “Don’t worry if you did use it; you know I won’t grass on you, sir. I’m dying to learn Legilimency…please?” She clasped her hands together imploringly. 

“You do realize it is not as simple as that? It takes years to master. First you have to learn Occlumency, which yes, I can teach you. It’s not forbidden at Hogwarts.” 

A few minutes passed where Stateira was caught up in a daydream about probing into people’s minds and seeing that memory, the one everyone had which held the greatest influence on their behavior. 

“Alright, Miss McElroy, now it’s time to discuss the topic I originally brought you here for, which is your detention.” Riddle’s professional, no-nonsense voice was turned back on. “Every Friday, eight o’clock, no exceptions, until the last Friday of term. No exceptions, Miss McElroy, I’m serious. If you are tired, you will come here and sleep. If you are sick, you will come here and rest. Every Friday, eight o’clock. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Stateira asked, wanting to ask him where she would rest or sleep there, but she knew she had to keep her sass in check. The madness of the day was sinking in; her muscles were quite reluctant to move. With a heavy exhale, she heaved herself off the chair and turned to leave. Halfway to the door, she turned back around. Riddle was opening the door to his office. 

“Professor Riddle?” she asked before she could lose her nerve. 

“Yes?” 

“I have just one more question…” 

The two of them took a couple of steps closer to each other, but there was still a wide berth when Stateira spoke. “You said earlier…about great wizards using their suffering as power…”

“That is correct.” 

She kept her eyes on his face despite how badly she wanted to look away. “Does that mean those who have greatly suffered could become the most powerful?”

“It is not a direct cause, but yes, there is a correlation. As I said previously, Grindelwald had quite a few troubles in his early life, as did Dumbledore. And, if I’m not mistaken, Alexander.” 

Stateira thought of her brother’s hatred of the Blood Traitor, of the bombs and the hunger and the heatless winters. Then she remembered Riddle’s words about Hogwarts being his home since his first year. “And so did you?” The question fell from her lips without circulating through her brain. 

“Yes,” Riddle said. “So did I.”

She nodded, hypothesis confirmed. “Good night, Professor.” 

“Good night, Miss McElroy.”

As she dragged her heavy, aching body through the corridors making prefect rounds, Stateira thought of Alexander again, of how his anger and ambition had propelled him to kill the great Albus Dumbledore. Surely there were other uses of magical strength, and she vowed to master at least a few of them.

~**~ ~**~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI:  
> -Aw, isn't Tom Riddle just so wonderful and kind? Heh. WRONG.  
> -Edwina<3 will play a bigger role as the story progresses.  
> -Quote from _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ is taken directly from the one in canon, except I changed Rita to Francine, obviously.


	4. Spring 1948

All in all, there were not exactly repercussions from the Weasley Weasel Incident. The Slytherins were more proud of having her in their House than losing 150 points, and Edwina had told her she understood why she’d lashed out. Even Prewett and Longbottom were no longer openly hostile toward her in Defense class, though this was likely more due to fear. Bruin Weasley was released with no lasting injuries and a slightly less obnoxious demeanor, and during her “detentions,” Riddle was teaching her Occlumency. 

Although she was grateful to learn it for its usefulness, the lessons themselves were far from fun. Stateira often ended up on her knees about 10 feet in front of Riddle, panting and exhausted. Over and over old, latent memories flooded her mind as she tried desperately to block them out. Many times she succeeded but not until the end of the lesson. 

Since many of her older memories featured Alexander, it was very difficult to keep her mind blank. An ache pinched her insides every time she saw her brother and scenes of both of them in their old flat or plying in the rubble-filled, dusty streets of London. 

There was one memory in particular that appeared one time in April that reduced her to tears: one night in early 1942 when it seemed like the whole city was raining debris from buildings, cars, and streets. The bombs had been coming frequently, and it was ambiguous whether the protection spells on their muggle building would be effective against them. Gran had refused to go to the basement with the muggles and obviously they couldn’t leave her, so she, her daughter, and three grandchildren sat in the flat, listening to the walls shake and windows rattle. This had frightened five-year-old Hollis, so Alexander had started to play a game with him called “Would You Rather?” 

“Would you rather have a birthday every month or eat cakes every day?”

“Would you rather be a tiger or a lion?” 

“Would you rather ride a broom or be Disillusioned?” 

Stateira had joined in immediately, but after about 10 minutes, Gran, instead of looking out for unsuitable language, also played along. That got their mum in, and all five of them were having a ball thinking up questions. Hollis had been completely distracted from the noise. It had been maybe the first time they’d all sat together and smiled so much since the before the Blood Traitor had left. 

Stateira realized she was yet again on the floor with her face in her hands. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her breaths uneven. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through her fingers. Humiliated, she stood up, wiped her eyes, and tucked her handkerchief back into her robes. Too ashamed to look at Riddle, she bit down on her knuckle and clasped her wand, pointing it at the floor. 

She heard him take a few steps closer. “See, that’s the source of your power, right there. Control that, and you will—don’t!”

Startled, Stateira looked at him, wide-eyed. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth. Her finger was gnawed and she felt blood on her lips. 

Still holding her wrist, Riddle inspected the bite marks. She expected him to be disgusted, but his face didn’t show any signs of it. When they met each other’s eyes, a look passed between them that she’d never seen from him before. She had no idea what it was, really, and it was fleeting, so she didn’t ponder it. He let go of her and said, “I’ll be right back.” 

As his back disappeared into his office, she took her handkerchief back out and wrapped it around her finger. 

He came back with a tiny jar in his hand filled with slightly foggy clear liquid. As he extended it to her, he instructed, “Pour this into a bowl and submerge your finger into it for a couple of minutes.” 

Stateira took the tiny jar and held it up to inspect it out of curiosity. “It’s essence of murtlap,” he told her. 

“Thank you, Professor.” She smiled at him but tore her eyes away, feeling foolish. As she left the classroom, she wondered from where on Earth Professor Riddle had acquired his seemingly infinite supply of patience. 

 

One week later, Stateira threw off his Legilimency spell but not by blocking her mind. “Throw off the spell by any means,” he’d said, and her means that evening were unexpected by both parties. 

When they were back in the flat with Alex and Hollis, Stateira was able to focus on the present enough to yell, “ _Protego!_ ” 

Memories were still flashing, but there were entirely unfamiliar: a group of children walking in two neat lines being led down Vauxhall Road, the same group at a large table in a bare, cold brick building, chatting and horsing around, except for one dark-haired little boy in the corner; then they were in the Slytherin common room looking at a group of indiscernible boys sitting near the fire… Then a bright, blank wall of nothing, and they were back in the classroom. 

“Well, you succeeded in lifting the spell,” Riddle said calmly, “but blocking your mind is much more effective than a Shield Charm because the charm requires more concentration, which is more likely to distract you.”

She nodded, still ruminating over what she’d just seen, trying to make sense of it all. He’d apparently gone to a boarding school as a young boy, but what kind of school took wizards that young?

“Stateira, may I ask you a question?” Riddle said suddenly. “About Alexander?” 

Immediately snapping to attention, her heart sped up and her chest felt constricted by an unseen force. “Er, of course, sir.’

He looked like he was choosing his words carefully, probably wary of setting off a crying fit again. “Did he ever say anything about Dumbledore after…1945?” 

“No, sir,” she replied, shaking her head firmly. “He’s never mentioned him. I reckon to avoid incriminating himself or the others of the Magic Army.”

“What about his wand? Did he say anything about it? That he’d gotten another, perhaps?” 

If Stateira wasn’t confused before, she certainly was then. “Er, no, sir. All I know is that the Ministry confiscated it after he was arrested.” 

He nodded, eyebrows joined together, thinking hard. She wondered what prompted him to ask such a personal question, but at least now the score was more even in terms of bringing up unorthodox subjects.

“Professor?” she asked tentatively. “You lived by Vauxhall Road? You know, I live about 10 blocks away from that very spot!” 

“Yes, I know, Stateira,” he replied. “I’ve viewed countless memories of yours. I can tell you your exact address by now.”

She heard the words, but they didn’t sink in. She was too busy fully rehashing Riddle’s memories. If he’d grown up near Vauxhall Road and that building was a school filled with muggle kids, did that make him a…?

“Half-blood,” he said suddenly, making her flinch. “My mother was a witch, my father a muggle.”

Stateira nodded, unsure what to think of this news. “Oh.” Her mouth was dry. “I mean, I don’t care,” she added. “It’s not your fault what your parents…chose to do.” 

Again his expression was unreadable, but he was looking at her intently now rather than off in the distance. She could sense that she had edged closer to an invisible boundary, so she excused herself to start the rounds. They’d already extended the “detention” into the late night, like a few others before it. 

~**~ ~**~

The Slug Club of 1948 consisted of five members, all sixth-years: Abraxas Malfoy, Alphard Black, Icarus Yaxley, Sequitur Delmont, and the lone Ravenclaw, Achilles Longbottom. The Club met up usually once a week, on Sunday nights, but meetings often got postponed due to detentions or the like. 

The Slug Club meetings were a place where they could “chat” but upon further inspection, Alphard deduced that it was a gathering of students that Slughorn predicted would be successful, and therefore, indebted to him somehow. That was the only reason he could think of that Longbottom, one of the best in their year, attended. 

There was another club that met every Wednesday, unofficial and unnamed. This one was held in Professor Riddle’s Defense classroom, and instead of Riddle leading the conversation like Slughorn, he let the boys take over the discussions while he graded papers or something. In this club, only the four Slytherin boys were included. 

On one particular evening in late May, Alphard, Abraxas, Sequitur, and Icarus walked to the dungeons at around 10 at night. Since Alphard was a particularly reliable prefect, no one questioned what they were doing. None of them got into too much trouble; only Abraxas and Icarus occasionally landed themselves in detention. 

“What’s Longbottom even doing in that club?” Abraxas sneered. “He’s dumber than a bag of dirt. What’s Slughorn even want from him?” 

“He’s got top marks,” Alphard told him neutrally. “Slughorn probably reckons he’ll be the next Minister of Magic.” 

“That socially awkward lump elected in office?” Icarus joined in. “They don’t even make professional robes in his size.”

Alphard and Sequitur were quiet. The former couldn’t attest to what the latter was thinking, but he hated how Abraxas and Icarus treated other students. Their blood status and centuries-old wealth gave them a strong and aggravating royalty complex. Cygnus and Walburga were the same, so Alphard knew he was the odd one out. 

They opened the classroom door to find Professor Riddle at his usual spot, grading essays behind his desk, but he wasn’t alone in the room. Stateira McElroy sat at a table on the left in the seat Sequitur occupied in class. She glanced up, raised an eyebrow at the boys, and turned back to her exam. She’d been out sick, Alphard remembered, and was evidently making it up. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, we didn’t realize…” he said slowly. 

Riddle hadn’t looked up from his work. “Gentlemen, perhaps we will meet tomorrow instead.”

“It’s alright, sir, I’m used to ignoring them,” Stateira assured him as she continued to write. 

“Very funny, McElroy,” Abraxas said, winking at her. “Don’t worry, darling, we won’t disturb you.” 

Her cheeks went slightly pink as she turned back to her exam. 

“Mr. Malfoy, please do not distract her or I will have to throw you out,” Riddle said with a touch of rare impatience in his voice. 

Abraxas immediately shut up and pulled out a book. 

“I didn’t know you read,” Icarus remarked. 

“This is worth reading.”

“ _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_? What the bloody hell’s so interesting about that?” 

“Yeah, what did they write about?” Sequitur asked. “His Order of Merlin and Wizongamot stunts and all that?”

“Well, I’ve only gotten halfway through, but this Skeeter lady sure doesn’t praise him like the others do,” Abraxas said, sitting on the table and crossing his arms arrogantly, enjoying all the attention. “That’s why it’s called _The Life and_ Lies _of Albus Dumbledore_. Professor, have you read it?” 

“Get off the table and into a chair like a human being,” Riddle replied. “And yes, I’ve read it.” 

Alphard noticed that Stateira had just handed in her exam and returned to her desk unnoticed, apparently doing homework. She was very still, not looking at the roll of parchment she wrote on, and he suspected she was listening intently to the conversation. 

“It’s quite illuminating,” Abraxas continued. “Who would’ve thought the old fool was best pals with Grindelwald, eh?”

Stateira’s head whipped toward him and she dropped her quill. “What?” 

“Hell, more than friends if you really read between the lines…”

“Dumbledore and Grindelwald had a friendship?” the girl burst out, but only Alphard heard her. 

“And,” Abraxas went on, “it was actually Dumbledore who came up with ‘the greater good’ idea; he was all for wizarding control. And then he turned into a muggle-lover somehow, but I’ve yet to read that part.” 

“ _Accio book!_ ” Stateira cried without warning. It flew out of Abraxas’ hands and across the aisle. As soon as she caught it, she opened it to the table of contents, skimming the chapters with her finger, and flipped to a further page. 

“I’m unsure of whether I want to go to Greece or the south of France this year,” Abraxas was saying, unfazed. “I was in France four times already and I haven’t yet been to Greece, so I reckon Greece it will be.” 

“Miss McElroy, you’ve gotten an Outstanding on your exam,” Riddle said, still not looking up. “Please don’t use this terrible purple ink ever again.” 

“Nice job, McElroy,” Abraxas told her, but she wasn’t listening, so absorbed in the book that she’d blocked out her surroundings. 

Alphard looked at Abraxas uneasily. He was not happy about being ignored. “McElroy? Can I have my book now?” 

“Wait a minute,” she muttered, staring glassy-eyed at the pages. 

Abraxas exchanged an incredulous look with Icarus. Girls didn’t ignore them or tell them to wait. Just as Abraxas took a breath to call her name, she slammed the book on the table, eyes wide in shock. “I can’t believe this!” she exclaimed in outrage. “That old hypocrite!”

“Yes, that’s the general consensus among us,” said Icarus. “He pegged every Slytherin as Dark just because we don’t want to live among muggles and half-breeds.”

“He always hated me,” she whispered to herself, tuning the rest of them out again. “Because of Alexander’s allegiance to Grindelwald’s Army, and he helped create it!” Everyone in the room watched her as she stood up, fury breaking out on her face. “I’ll be back in 10 minutes!” she declared, and before anyone could say a word, she had already stalked out. 

“Er, perhaps we should go get her?” Alphard asked worriedly. 

“Perhaps,” Abraxas snickered. “I’d sure feel bad for the poor sod who comes across her path. After the Weasley Weasel Incident, I’d bet she’d burn the whole castle down.”

“It’s after curfew; she’ll be fine,” Riddle said unconcernedly. “Speaking of which, you’d all best get going. Mr. Black, please return her things to her.” He gestured to Stateira’s abandoned bag and roll of parchment. 

“I’ll do it,” Abraxas offered. 

"Black is perfectly capable. I suggest you don’t go looking for her right away. Until next time, gentlemen.”

Alphard gathered Stateira’s things, trying to slide the parchment into the bag as neatly as possible as the others said goodnight to Riddle. After escorting them back to the common room, he set off to find her. He knew he should heed Riddle’s warning and leave her alone, maybe just plop her bag in front of her door in the prefect’s quarters, but he couldn’t. He feared not only for other students but for the girl herself. Ignatius Prewett said that the walls and floor had shaken under their feet as she’d dished out her anger on Bruin Weasley, and as Alphard recalled it, he considered turning back. Would he even be able to stop her?

However, after two hours of searching, Alphard was forced to return to the common room without Stateira, exhausted and anticipating with dread his Charms exam the next morning. On the way back, he thought of Dumbledore and his supposed friendship with Grindelwald. According to Skeeter’s book, Grindelwald had gotten kicked out of Durmstrang at the age of 16 for conducting Dark experiments. Was that the beginning of the end of the partnership for Dumbledore? Was it Grindelwald’s behavior that had made Dumbledore question his beliefs? Was his distinction between wrong and right clear…or blurred, like Alphard’s and so many other Slytherins’? Perhaps that was why Dumbledore had always been a bit biased against Slytherin House. Maybe it reminded him too much of what he had been. 

 

The tables and figures in the Great Hall were slightly blurred, as if strong waves of heat were rising from the floor. Next to Stateira, Beryl Fawley, Aurelia Parkinson, and Druella Rosier sat eating breakfast and discussing the upcoming weekend at Hogsmeade. They did not invite her. She was the plainest out of all of them, yet it was her that handsome Professor Riddle paid the most attention to. What did she have that none of them had, besides high marks and a blood-traitor family? 

Stateira was not trying to be invited; she knew she never would be. She was different, not like them. Powerful, special. The words repeated themselves over and over in her head, but they didn’t relieve the anger coursing through her veins. 

Her eyes slowly scanned the Great Hall, taking in the dumb Gryffindors, the insignificant Hufflepuffs, the conceited Ravenclaws. No, Stateira was not like them. They all worshiped Dumbledore, that old, hypocritical, muggle-loving fool. 

The plate under her teacup cracked, signaling that it was time to get out of there before she became dangerous. Her first idea was the first-floor bathroom, ready to blast the sinks apart, but at the last moment before she pushed open the doors, she turned and ran the other way. Not having a conscious destination, she realized she was heading toward the dungeons. 

Thankfully, she had enough sense not to barrel into the room in case Riddle had a class, but he didn’t. He was at the desk, reading The Daily Prophet and drinking tea. 

He looked up at the sound of the door opening. “Good morning, Miss McElroy. Has Mr. Black given you your belongings like I asked him to?”

“Professor, I’m ready to—to use my magic,” she blurted. At her wavering voice, he set down the newspaper and stood up. “I have to get it out. Please, I’m…I’m going to throw a fit…”

“Sit down and tell me why you’re so angry.” 

She sat in the first seat at the left front table. A few seconds passed before she could pull her hand away from her mouth. Again she felt a smidge of blood on her lips, but she couldn’t unstick her tongue. “ _Dumbledore_ ,” she finally spat. 

Riddle was next to her now with a hand on her shoulder, leaning in and whispering, “Clear your mind,” in her ear.

“Clear it, Stateira, that’s it, calm and clear…”

Mercifully, a blank wall appeared and Stateira calmed down almost instantly. She closed her eyes, tension draining out, as something soft and cold grazed her bottom lip. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Riddle had wiped the blood from her mouth with his thumb. 

“I’ve got a meeting with Dippet in 20 minutes. Keep your mind clear until tomorrow night. You’ll have an opportunity to exercise it. Until then, you must _control yourself_.” 

“Yes, Professor.” Wearily, Stateira stood up and left as he returned to his desk.

As she entered the corridor and closed the door behind her, she noticed a group of fifth-years passing by on their way to Merrythought’s class. One of them, Antonia Longbottom, was staring at Stateira intently, eyebrows raised in question. 

 

“There’s something going in there,” Antonia insisted. “That’s not normal.”

She, Edwina Boot, and Achilles Longbottom sat in the library, talking quietly. They all had a free period until Edwina and Achilles were due in Arithmancy. Antonia had just came from Defense with a fervent air of solving a mystery and told them she’d just witnessed Stateira McElroy exiting Professor Riddle’s classroom, alone, with a satisfied expression and a bloody finger. 

“What’s the bloody finger got to do with it?” Achilles asked, trying to keep traces of a chuckle out of his voice. “You reckon he bit her?”

“I don’t think there’s anything going on,” Edwina said sensibly before Antonia could retort. “There doesn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary in our Defense class, right, Achilles?” 

The boy shook his head. “No, nothing. Not sure where that ‘favorite’ rumor came from anyway.” 

“It comes from the fact that any other student would’ve been expelled for publicly torturing Bruin,” Antonia whispered harshly. “And don’t even say it’s her marks, Achilles, because you know damn well yours are just as good as hers.”

Stateira McElroy was slightly better at practical spell work than Achilles, but Edwina knew there was not much use arguing with his sister. Antonia Longbottom was a firm believer in doing what was right at all costs, which was more of a Gryffindor mentality than a Ravenclaw one. Tall for 15 years old with her blonde hair always pulled back in a no-nonsense bun instead of the elaborate curls Edwina and the other girls were experimenting with, Antonia had no use for things that weren’t practical. If she didn’t agree with it, she cast it out entirely. Despite her good intentions and self-preservation, she was a bit difficult for her friends, classmates, and brother to handle. 

“We don’t see anything, sis,” Achilles told her, “but we’ll check again, I suppose.” He was blonde like Antonia, but his hair always fell across his face, and he wasn’t the type to speak up. Unfortunately, as a result, he could be a bit of a pushover. 

Edwina couldn’t understand why Antonia was so concerned about Stateira when the two girls weren’t friends anymore—didn’t they all have their own problems? Edwina recalled an offhand remark Stateira had made about her mother not bothering with her, which reminded Edwina of her own father, drinking glass after glass of gin, lost in another time. Perhaps Antonia, whose parents were together and relatively happy, had nothing to preoccupy her. 

When they’d left her in the library to head to Arithmancy, Achilles asked, “You reckon we should talk to McElroy?”

She glared at him out of the side of her eye. “I’m not going to spy on her. Contrary to what your sister thinks, we _are_ friends.” 

“I know, Edwina, I’m not suggesting that. But if Antonia says something to her, it’s not going to be good. Stateira just…doesn’t seem to be very stable right now. Do you reckon she may need, I dunno, someone to talk to?” 

As they reached Vector’s classroom, Edwina thought about the other sixth-year Slytherin girls. They all came from rich and respected “Sacred 28” families, and Stateira didn’t seem to be particularly close to them. Abraxas Malfoy paid her a fair bit of attention but Edwina suspected a different interest behind that. 

_Alright_ , Edwina said silently to herself. _I’ll speak to her tomorrow after classes. Not that I think she’ll fly off her rocker, but…better safe than sorry.  
___

She found her after supper the next day on her way to the Slytherin common room, trailing behind her housemates. Edwina caught up to her and gently took her arm. “I’m sorry to bother you, Stateira, but, erm, can I have a word with you?”

“Alright,” said the other girl, surprised. “Here or in private?” 

“In private’s best, I think.” Edwina’s throat was constricting slightly and her heart was beating quickly but her resolve didn’t waver. She knew she would regret keeping quiet if Stateira hurt herself or someone else. 

She led her to a corridor on the second floor that didn’t see a lot of traffic due to raging insults flying from a portrait of a bitter, squat old man in a black bowler hat. “I can’t think of a way to ask this in a subtle manner,” Edwina said, “so I’ll just come out with it. Are you alright?” 

Stateira’s eyebrows jumped up for a moment, but she quickly rearranged her face back to blank. “Of course I am. Why would you think I’m not?” 

“Well…” Edwina shuffled her feet, looking down at both girls’ matching, secondhand Mary Janes and grey knee socks. “It’s just, I’ve seen that you’re a bit…tense, like you’re trying to bottle something up. My mum used to say that those who lash out are hurting the most—" 

“Is this about Weasley?” Stateira cut her off flatly. “I don’t regret what I did, alright? He asked for it by having a go at my brother.” 

“No, I know,” Edwina assured her quickly. Stateira narrowed her dark eyes, and Edwina could see that she wore more makeup than usual. Was she going off to meet a bloke? 

“Oh, I know what this is about,” Stateira said coolly, nodding in mock-understanding. “I’ve seen you around with the Longbottoms. _She_ set you up, didn’t she? Thinks I’m up to no good?” 

“What?” Edwina let out. “No!” 

“What did she tell you? That I’m evil, right, a prejudiced madwoman?” 

It was quite unpleasant being on this side of the girl’s sneering. Her voice was fake-kind, as if she was talking to a child. 

“No, Stateira, I don’t—" 

“Save it, Boot. I’m not sacrificing animals or whatever this school thinks Slytherins do. Now please excuse me, I’m late, and do say hi to Antonia for me? Tell her I’m a fan of her new shoes. They suit her.” 

She turned her back, striding toward the stairs. “Where are you going?” Edwina blurted out before she had any time to think. 

“Not that it’s any of your concern,” Stateira called over her shoulder, “but I’ve got detention until the end of time, remember?” 

Edwina watched her leave, trying not to correlate her newfound confidence and extra makeup to her Friday evening detentions. _No_ , she thought firmly. _Antonia can’t be right._ Well, at least she was not going to burst at the seams anytime soon. 

~**~ ~**~

No, Stateira McElroy was not bursting at the seams. Quite the contrary; she had almost complete control. Thanks to her built strength and Professor Riddle’s instruction, the uncontrolled bursts were a thing of the past. Now she could create almost anything she wished, or destroy, or control…as evidenced in a recent detention when she placed a spider under the Imperius Curse. How much power to have over something! Never again would anything exert that power over her, she told herself 

Confidence had a physical effect: she strutted around, alone or with the Slytherin girls. The mental effect gave her a feeling of invincibility. So what if Edwina Boot wasn’t her friend? Stateira could do better than some half-blood Ravenclaw and that’s if she even wanted friends, which she did not. For what did she need them? 

All of this confidence had a slight downside, which was more attention from her Slytherin male counterparts, particularly Malfoy and Delmont. The latter wasn’t too difficult to deal with, but the former more than made up for that. Switching tactics from ignoring him and hoping he’d give up, Stateira decided to accept his invitation for the end-of-year Slug Club party in the hope that he wouldn’t be too impressed with her after spending time with her. 

What actually happened was that she’d had two glasses of rosemary champagne—how potent could the stuff be anyway? It catered to women—and had gotten slightly drunk. She thought she was clear-headed enough to disguise it, but apparently, Malfoy had not been fooled. In an empty classroom after the party, he held Stateira by the waist and kissed her on the mouth. She would have preferred him to have asked, and he wasn’t very gentle, so she was tense and wished to pull away. But she did need to learn how to kiss, being 16 already, so she made a better effort. She kissed him back and ran her hand through his hair, pretending it was not blonde and sleek but thick, wavy, and dark. 

Three weeks before the official end of the semester, Stateira was on her way to her detention when she found herself behind Malfoy, Yaxley, Black, and Delmont, all talking in low voices. Not wanting Malfoy to spot her, she let them take a couple more steps ahead before following and listening. 

“The Dark Lord is gaining followers with each passing day. Even my father’s wondering if he should back him up, but he doesn’t even know who the bloke is. Supposedly he’s even greater than Grindelwald.” 

“Cygnus knows, but he won’t tell me,” Black replied. “He’s joining him as soon as the Knights start establishing themselves.” 

“I wonder what it takes to be a Knight?” Yaxley asked more to himself, since none of the others seemed to have much information. 

“Definitely something to prove your allegiance to the Dark Lord,” Malfoy said. “And something to prove that you’re really for the cause, like jinx a mudblood or something.” 

_The Dark Lord?_ Stateira thought. _Who on Earth is that? Someone in the UK?_

Up ahead, the corridor split into two, and the boys were taking the west one to the common room while the right led to the Defense classroom, so Stateira had to leave the conversation. She was deep in thought as she walked alone, wondering about this Dark Lord. His “Knights” sounded very familiar to the soldiers of the Magic Army, but nobody knew where Grindelwald was, and Alexander had referred to him as Leader, not Lord. 

“Good evening, Stateira,” Riddle said, breaking her out of her reverie. “You’re 10 minutes early.” 

She hadn’t even realized that she had walked into the classroom. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I’ll just have a—" 

“No, let’s get started. Please close the door behind you. Have you remembered to practice Occlumency?” 

“Erm, not really, Professor.” She looked down, embarrassed. After learning an Unforgivable, she’d gone on a nonverbal spell-casting blitz as a sort of test to see if she still possessed that amount of skill. 

“Right, that’s why we’ll be practicing it tonight. That way you can have a more interesting lesson for your last detention next Friday.” 

Stateira perked up at that. What spell did he have in mind? Before she could ponder any more, flashes of the past few days popped up in her mind. Riddle had cast the spell nonverbally. Quickly gaining composure, she warded him out right in the middle of Edwina Boot’s confrontation. However, the next time, he got so far so fast, all the way until they were in a particularly horrid memory of summer 1941 in the Blood Traitor’s house. He and the Muggle were discussing the “mad girl” in the house. 

“I don’t know if you’ve got asylums in…your world, but if so, I recommend she stay in one,” the Muggle said. 

“Her grandmother would never go for that. They care more about keeping up their family image.” 

“Well, that’s between you and them. After all, _I_ didn’t give birth to her. I don’t want her here anymore.” 

“Don’t worry…” 

The Blood Traitor always said that, but he never meant it except for when it came to his wife. The Muggle was an exception to all. 

Stateira felt her knees slamming against the stone floor as the wall finally came and threw off the spell. Before she had gotten herself upright, Riddle said, “ _Legilimens!_ ” and more memories came, even faster this time, until she recognized a strange dream she’d had about a month prior that she’d forgotten about immediately upon waking up. 

Then, with horror, not a memory or a dream came, but a daydream she’d had in Defense class. She’d finished her exam early so, as per the rule, she rolled up the parchment and waited quietly until instructed to hand it in. 

Riddle had been at his desk, grading the exams from his other class, and Stateira had glanced at him and thought about how handsome he really was. Although she had told herself that blokes were a dangerous waste of time, something had awakened inside of her when he’d wiped the blood off her lip. The scene changed into a dark room that sort of looked like a prefect’s. Since Stateira had never seen a teacher’s bedroom, her imagination had to fill in the blanks. 

In her mind, she stood in front of Riddle, looking into his dark eyes as he held her in his arms. One of his hands lifted to touch her lip as he leaned in… They were locked in a passionate embrace… And the stupid wall came _then_ , after the whole blasted thing had played. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Stateira groaned, mortified. She was on her knees again, hands covering her face. “That wasn’t fair.” 

“Imagination and memory are in the same part of the brain,” Riddle said, and she was sure she heard traces of amusement in his voice, which was preferable to anger, but she was still horrified at her mind’s betrayal all the same. “You see how deep your opponent can go, how fast?” 

Stateira nodded, standing up and keeping her eyes on her shoes. She was never, ever going to be able to look Riddle in the face again. 

Fortunately, her embarrassment helped strengthen her resolve to keep him away from her imagination, and she was able to construct a stronger wall. By the end of the lesson, she had blocked him immediately the last three times, so she was rather triumphant, albeit still red-faced. 

As she left the classroom, she remembered the Slytherin boys’ conversation about the Dark Lord, how he wanted to rule over muggles. She wondered what Riddle thought about muggles, but she knew if she asked, he would be unable to answer honestly. 

~**~ ~**~

Edwina closed her copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ and rubbed her eyes. She had been reading ceaselessly all weekend and did not know what to make of it. Dumbledore had consorted with Grindelwald to build up a powerful, dominating wizarding race? That seemed so very unlike Dumbledore. Granted, she hadn’t known the man well simply by talking his Transfiguration classes for two and a half years, but he’d always struck her as kind and fair, not biased like the Slytherins always claimed. However, that might have been because Professor Dumbledore had always praised Edwina for her skills and excellent grasp of the theory. 

Briefly, she flashed back to 1945, the beginning of her third year. The mood had been joyous, for both Grindelwald had been defeated and the muggles had finally ceased the bombs, which had made a terrible mess in both their world and the wizarding. Professor Dumbledore had been awarded an Order of Merlin, first class, for his victory, and there was talk of him becoming headmaster of Hogwarts the following year. He came back in October 1945, relieving Ernest Dunst of his substitution while Dumbledore had sought Grindelwald. 

Then, over winter break that very same year, an article was released about his murder on 26th December 1945 by the Magic Army, to which the Ministry had no known location. His spot at the staff table was empty once again, and a haze of suppressing blackness had descended upon Hogwarts. Dumbledore, regarded as a treasure among wizards, was still mourned in 1948 by a large margin of the population. Francine Skeeter was an exception, apparently. 

Edwina was pulled in opposite directions by Skeeter’s words and everything she’d known about Dumbledore thus far. She didn’t know with whom to hash it out. Not Stateira, of course, for anything related to Dumbledore was undoubtedly a sore spot. The only other true confidante Edwina had was Antonia Longbottom. Despite Antonia’s irritating behavior as of late, Edwina went looking and found her in the Quidditch field. 

She was with Amelia Llewellyn, another fifth-year Ravenclaw, and surprisingly not with Bruin Weasley. “Hello, Antonia,” Edwina said as she approached them. “Could I have a word when you have the chance?” 

“Oh.” Antonia’s pale eyebrows raised in surprise; it had been a bit since Edwina had sought her out. “Of course, Edwina. We can actually talk now, since Amelia’s going to go talk to Cadmus Greeley anyway.” 

“No!” Amelia turned a fierce red and covered her mouth. “I’m not ready!” 

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear, you want him to ask you to Hogsmeade next weekend, don’t you?” 

“Well, yes…” 

After another of Antonia’s convincing pep talks, Amelia tentatively walked across the lawn to where the members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team were horsing around, enjoying the rare chance to keep it lighthearted instead of drilling for the final match. 

__“Alright, what’s happening, Edwina?” Antonia asked, eyes on Amelia, who stood off awkwardly to the side._ _

__“Aren’t you still going steady with Bruin?” Edwina blurted out of nowhere. That certainly hadn’t been what she intended to ask._ _

__“No, I’m not,” Antonia replied, turning to look at her. “I had to drop him; he was dreadfully annoying. Is that what you wanted to ask?”_ _

__“No,” Edwina said hastily. “I wanted to ask about, erm, Dumbledore. Have you read that book?”_ _

__Antonia scoffed, visibly disgusted. “Of course not. I refuse to even touch that rubbish. That Skeeter woman seeks only to tarnish his name.”_ _

“But he was consorting with Grindelwald. That’s been backed up by Bathilda Bagshot, and she is Grindelwald’s great-aunt or something, in addition to a friend of the Dumbledore family. I don’t think _she_ would lie.” 

__“Of course it hasn’t, Edwina; Bathilda has more integrity than that,” Antonia said harshly. “That deplorable Skeeter twisted up her words, as per her usual method.”_ _

__Edwina didn’t quite have an answer for that, knowing little of Skeeter’s background._ _

“Listen, Edwina.” Antonia’s voice was softer now. “Albus Dumbledore may have been on the wrong side of things once, but who, at the age of 17, makes perfectly sound choices all the time? The poor bloke’s sister was killed, as if he wouldn’t have steered away from the Dark Arts on his own. He brought Grindelwald _down_ , which everyone seems to be forgetting.” 

__“Yes, you’re quite right,” said Edwina, even though she still felt doubtful. What would’ve transpired if Ariana Dumbledore hadn’t gotten killed? How long would it have taken him to go against Grindelwald, if ever?_ _

__“Dumbledore was all that is good,” Antonia said sadly, resting her chin on her hands and gazing across the field, not really seeing it. “There may not be another Light wizard of his caliber for years.”_ _

__“Dad used to say that the very brilliant tend to gravitate toward the Dark,” Edwina said, which did nothing to lift Antonia’s mood._ _

__The conversation ended when Amelia came back over, grinning broadly, her cheeks no longer red. “He asked me!”_ _

__“Oh, that’s wonderful, dear,” Antonia said unconvincingly. “Let’s go back to the castle and think of how to style your hair…” Her voice grew cheerier as she kept talking. They waved goodbye to Edwina before walking off._ _

_I’ll just forget that depressing book_ , Edwina decided, taking a detour around the later as the late afternoon sun shone on her back. What was the use of bringing Dumbledore’s misdeeds to light and ruminating over them, anyway? The man had died, and no one was likely to forget his great contributions anytime soon. 

__

One week later, Stateira forwent a roaring end-of-term party in the common room to attend her last detention. One week from that night, every student would be boarding the Hogwarts Express. _Sixteen detentions_ , she thought, _I thought I’d never see the end_. But if she was honest, she enjoyed Riddle’s lessons and, most of all, his praise. 

When she arrived at the classroom, she found it empty. An open book and parchment lie on the desk, as if he’d been copying something and left in a hurry. The book was titled _Treasures of the Hogwarts Four_ , and his notes were indiscernible. Not wanting Riddle to walk out of his office and catch her poking around his desk, she walked around it and waited. 

__She checked her watch: 8:20; she’d been 10 minutes late shaking off Malfoy entangling her into a dance. Had Riddle forgotten it was Friday? Or was he avoiding a repeat of last Friday’s embarrassing performance? Her cheeks were burning at the thought of it._ _

__After another slow 10 minutes, Stateira knocked on his office door. No reply, but she noticed an inch-wide gap between the door and frame. He hadn’t locked his office. It appeared that the lights were off, but there was a faint white glow coming from somewhere inside, as if from a tiny silver lightbulb._ _

_Turn back, lass_ , Stateira’s voice said inside her head. _Turn back now_. Her body disobeyed, her hand pushing the door open. 

“ _Lumos._ ” A quick walk-around showed that the office was plain and bare, with only a desk and a single bookshelf filled with unrecognizable spines arranged neatly on the shelves. The real show-stopper was the Pensieve in the corner on a small table next to a door that presumably led to his bedroom. 

__Advancing toward the stone basin, Stateira felt a thrill of excitement. She’d never seen a Pensieve before but knew its purpose was to store memories. Had Riddle taken them out of his head on the chance that Stateira would break through his mind again? The thought was flattering, but if she was going to cross the line, she couldn’t stand around thinking._ _

__With the tip of her nose less than an inch away from the shimmering substance that was neither gas nor liquid, Stateira peered down into the basin. All she could see was grass with an orange glow cast on it by the emergence of dusk, and the top of a head of dark, wavy hair._ _

__At last she plunged her face in and fell through spinning blackness. Just as she thought she was about to hurl, she landed upright on an unfamiliar hillside next to whom she recognized as the former Slytherin prefect. His hair was shorter and he looked a touch younger, but other than that there were no differences between this teenage boy and present-day Riddle._ _

__He looked angrier than Stateira had ever seen him. She followed his gaze to a handsome manor house on top of the hill. He crept up to the front door, looked around, took out his wand, and silently opened the door._ _

__Inside was elegantly decorated in gold and silver ornaments atop intricately-painted flowered wallpaper. To the left was a dining hall similar to Black’s, and to the right was a crystal-clean kitchen with strange appliances connected to the walls with cords. Stateira recognized a few of them from the Blood Traitor’s house._ _

__Down a hall lined with portraits of the same scowling muggle man, it seemed like, a door was ajar and voices were floating out of it: a woman’s and two men’s. Riddle silently walked up to the door, kicked it open, and disappeared into the room. There were cries of shock, and by the time Stateira entered the red and gold wallpapered sitting room, Riddle had raised a wand, but it wasn’t the same one of yew he used in class. This was a shorter, darker one._ _

__An impeccably-dressed elderly couple sat on a velvet and mahogany couch, clutching each other’s hands and gaping at Riddle with fear, while a middle-aged man sat upright in a high-backed leather chair. There was something familiar about this man, very familiar… He, too, had black wavy hair, although streaked with grey, and dark eyes._ _

__“Who are you?” the man yelled. “What do you want?”_ _

__“Don’t recognize me, Father?” Riddle sneered. “We do look quite alike, don’t you think?”_ _

__Comprehension dawned on the man’s face and he began to sputter. “I—what—how did you—?”_ _

__“Did you not think your mistake would come back to haunt you?” Riddle was so angry, he was having trouble keeping the wand steady. His lips were tightened in a snarl and his voice was dangerously quiet. It was little wonder the three muggles seemed to be frozen in fear. “What’s the matter, Father, you don’t like magic? Is that why you left her to die, you filthy coward?”_ _

__“No, listen—your mother—she—"_ _

__“Was a witch, yes,” Riddle finished. “And you’re nothing but a pathetic muggle. You have lived 16 years longer than you deserved to.”_ _

__He pointed the wand at his father, who shook his head imploringly. “No, please…”_ _

“Too late for begging, Father. _Avada Kedavra!_ ” 

__Green light flooded the room as Riddle repeated the curse twice more. Stateira was unable to move, eyes wide, jaw open, and then she started to spin away…_ _

__She landed in a cemetery under pale moonlight in the same hot summer night. It was difficult to breathe; her lungs felt like they were tightening inside her chest. The air was completely silent except for the rhythm of bugs in the tall grass surrounding the stones. Stateira was standing behind the teenage Riddle, who was kneeling in front of the last stone of a long row. The one next to it read MARVOLO GAUNT with indiscernible dates carved underneath. Then Riddle leaned forward and she was able to see the name on the first stone:_ _

__MEROPE GAUNT  
1907-1926 _ _

__Riddle was resting his forehead against the stone, his breathing labored and uneven. Stateira was locked in place, trying to process what she was viewing. Then she spun away into the darkness and landed firmly on her feet in front of the Pensieve. The shimmering liquid-gas settled once more._ _

__Stateira was gasping, her hand over her mouth, as she registered what she had just witnessed. But there was something different about the office; it wasn’t so dark…_ _

__She turned toward a soft glow coming from the desk lamp, and, with a thrill of horror, saw Professor Riddle standing in front of the desk, casually leaning against it. Her insides instantly turned to steel and she started to tremble._ _

__“My, what a curious young girl you are,” he said in the same quiet voice he’d used with his father. “Dippet had warned me that you’re a bit rebellious, but I didn’t know you would go this far.”_ _

__“Professor, I’m so sorry,” Stateira breathed. “I don’t know what I was—"_ _

He held up a hand and she shut up immediately. “You were wondering how I feel about muggles,” he said. “From what you’ve just seen, you can deduce that I despise them. My filthy muggle father found out my mother was a witch and left her pregnant and destitute. I grew up in an orphanage raised by muggles. They told me I was mad, but I was not. I was more powerful than them, better than all of them. Doesn’t this tale sound familiar, Stateira? How very alike our fathers were, how easily they cast us aside like _we_ were the defective ones.” 

Stateira’s cheeks were wet with tears, and she was sniffling, her teeth chattering behind her clamped lips. _Well, this is it, I suppose,_ she thought, quivering with fear as Riddle stepped forward. _I’m going to die…_

__“Silly girl, you needn’t cry; you’re not going to die,” he assured her, reaching up and wiping a tear from underneath her eye. “Unless, of course, you plan on telling someone what you’ve seen?”_ _

__“No, sir, no, of course not—"_ _

__“I can trust you, yes?” He was smiling now, but it looked odd, out of place. “You know, I’ve heard others say you’re my favorite student, but I’m not sure you believe that. You should. They are correct.”_ _

__“Th-thank you, Professor,” she choked out. He was so close now, his face inches from her own, the back of his fingers caressing her cheek. Then he abruptly pulled his hand back and turned away._ _

__“Fix yourself and go to your dormitory. It’s getting late.”_ _

__“Yes, sir,” she said and shot out of there before he could change his mind about trusting her._ _

__It all hit her in the common room, which was now calm but littered with dishes, assorted rubbish, and a few bodies sprawled out on the sofas. Handsome, charismatic, patient Professor Riddle had methodically murdered his father and—she assumed—his grandparents at only 16, the same age as she. She couldn’t fathom using a Killing Curse now or ever in the future._ _

Stateira should have felt disgusted or horrified at the murder, because that was what society deemed wrong. _Society says_ , Alexander always said in a nasally, condescending voice when he talked about the Ministry protecting muggles. Alex had murdered also, and his sister was not disgusted with him. On the contrary, some days she was filled with a longing for her brother so strong, she felt as though she could uproot trees from the Forbidden Forest without lifting her wand. 

__No, she wasn’t disgusted with Alexander or Riddle. Afraid of the latter, maybe, but more in awe. How brave one had to be to take such revenge! And how filled with hate… Did she even hate the Blood Traitor anywhere near that level? If she had to speak out loud, she would have said yes. Inside her head, deep inside the place she wouldn’t go, she knew she did not. If he sent her an owl with just one word, she would take him back in a second. But she knew he wouldn’t say it, too ensconced in the Muggle by now._ _

Her eyes were filling with tears as she entered her room and closed the door. Riddle’s father, also a muggle, left his pregnant mother… such an amazing wizard, left in an orphanage… _No wonder so many wizards hate muggles,_ she thought savagely. _Look what happens when you mix them._

__To cast the Killing Curse—how? How does it feel to snatch the life of another?_ _

As she lie on her bed, she closed her eyes and brought up the memory. Riddle must have wanted to do that for _years_. All of that anger, all of that confidence, that power, at only 16 years old… 

Her hand moved up her leg and slid under her nightgown as she remembered his words. _He is so powerful and_ I _am his favorite_. Her cheeks were flushed, her toes curling with a sudden rush of desire. Involuntarily, her hand met its destination between her legs and her face turned into the pillow as her back arched. 

__

__Edwina felt like she was the only Ravenclaw that wasn’t thrilled about the end of term. She did not want to go back to her shack in Ottery St. Catchpole where it rained more often than not. She would be stuck inside with her father, trying to entertain Callista, who was now nine and at the age where all play activity last year was considered dull. Edwina could Apparate, which somewhat relieved her but not by much since she couldn’t risk taking Callista with her._ _

__Bruin Weasley lived in her village, but Edwina didn’t care for him at all, not to mention he hadn’t spoken to her since his and Antonia’s separation. Sometimes Edwina loathed her shyness; what use was it when she hadn’t anyone to talk to? She didn’t even have anyone to share her high exam scores with. Then, three days before term ended, Stateira McElroy approached her on the grounds._ _

__“Good afternoon, Boo—Edwina,” she said briskly, ready to plunge into rehearsal, but then she raised her head and looked at Edwina for the first time since that dreadful confrontation. “I, er, I just wanted to say… Well, I hope you have a good summer…” She trailed off, her eyes on the ground. “And also that I’m sorry for…wigging out on you. I acted appallingly.”_ _

__“No, you didn’t,” Edwina said gently. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”_ _

__“Well, it’s alright now.” Stateira smiled, and it was genuine in place of her usual cold one. “A bit of a rough year, you know how it goes.”_ _

__“Yes, for me, too,” she found herself saying. “I did not care for 1947, but at least it wasn’t ’38.”_ _

__“What happened in ’38?” Stateira asked, intrigued._ _

__“My mum died.”_ _

__“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” And she looked it, too, covering her mouth as her eyebrows slanted up. “Why haven’t you ever told me?”_ _

__Edwina did not know how to answer that honestly without involving her blood status, so she settled on, “I’m still a bit fussed by it, I suppose.”_ _

__“Well, of course you are. You know, ’38 was dreadful for me, too. That was when Mc—my dad left.”_ _

__Although Edwina had already known this, there was weight in the admission from Stateira herself. There was a silent pause._ _

__Swaggering down the lush hillside was a group of sixth-year Slytherin boys led by Abraxas Malfoy, undoubtedly coming to flirt with Stateira._ _

__“Listen.” She grasped Edwina’s hand suddenly. “Let’s write to each other over the holiday. I live at 127 Irvington Alley, unit four, Lambeth in London; can you remember—?”_ _

__“You live in London, Stateira?” Alphard Black interrupted. “I didn’t know that! Maybe we can meet in Diagon Alley one of these days. I’ll bring my cousin, Lucretia…”_ _

As Stateira was swept away, she turned to wave at Edwina, smiling and rolling her eyes. Edwina vowed to remember her address: _127 Irvington Alley, unit four, Lambeth… 127 Irvington Alley…_

__She repeated it over and over in her mind as she meandered over to the Black Lake. It was a good place because most of the other students were in the common rooms or dormitories, tracking down their belongings. Edwina had packed the week before, only leaving the things she used every day from her trunk._ _

__“Edwina!” a female voice called, and she turned to see Antonia Longbottom trotting toward her, shoes sending pebbles from the shore flying._ _

__“Hello, Antonia,” Edwina said dully, hoping not to hear a diatribe about a rule-breaking student or how house-elves in the kitchens were unfairly treated. Antonia, lately, had a way of exhausting a person without even touching them._ _

__“I saw you over there with McElroy,” she said without preamble. “You’re not friends again, are you?”_ _

__“Well, yes,” Edwina said with as much defiance that she could muster. “She apologized to me. She’s not half-bad, you know.”_ _

__Antonia shook her head. “Please. Not half-bad when she wants something from you. You know what she did in her first and second year? Told her father that Hogwarts had a yearly tuition. So he sent her 2,000 galleons without question. Who, at 11 years old, cons their father out of that type of money? A true Slytherin if I’ve ever seen one.”_ _

“Her dad _left_ her,” Edwina said curtly. “So what if he’s out a few thousand galleons? He’s rich anyway.” 

__Her unexpected response knocked Antonia down a few notches. Seizing the opportunity, Edwina continued, “I’ve just remembered I’ve forgotten to pack my cauldron, and I’ll have to take damn near everything out of my trunk to fit it in, so I’ll be seeing you…”_ _

__Edwina turned and walked to the castle, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her arms. She was reluctant to go indoors, but she had all summer to be outside, assuming it didn’t rain too often._ _

__“Edwina?” Antonia called from behind her. “Will you write to me?”_ _

__She was still standing in the same spot, looking slightly chagrined. Edwina remembered how close they’d been last year, when Antonia had been reluctant to discuss Stateira and how they’d spent hours making up funny stories and scenarios. Edwina had lost count of how many times her side had hurt from laughter in her fifth year. Would that Antonia ever return?_ _

__“Yes, of course I will,” Edwina assured her._ _

__

__Stateira was skipping down the hall, completing rounds for the last time of the 1947-1948 school year. Black had been sort of slacking off, so to appease Head Girl June Finch, she took it upon herself to go round the whole castle. There was nothing else to do, anyway. Her trunk was packed, clothes picked out, and everything was ready for her to board the Hogwarts Express at 10:00 the next morning._ _

__She had planned to move through the dungeons quickly or skip them altogether. However, when she approached the Defense classroom, she realized she should at least thank Professor Riddle for his lessons and talking her out of expulsion. That was the intention she told herself she had, at least._ _

__The classroom was empty and dark, but his office door was again ajar with faint orange light pouring out of it._ _

__“Professor Riddle?” she called out. “It’s Stateira McElroy…”_ _

__“Enter,” his voice said from behind the door._ _

__He was sitting behind the desk, which had the familiar display of heavy textbook, parchment, and quill. Stateira pulled the door closed, trying to get it at the same exact angle it had been at before, stalling for time. Her stomach was so unsettled, she felt like she was constantly swallowing, trying to keep the churning at bay. Her palms shook as she pressed them to her sides and took a few steps toward the desk._ _

__“Professor, I, erm, I just wanted to say thank you…for the lessons, and for persuading Dippet not to expel me, and…”_ _

__He sat straight, his quill down, and watched her with no expression on his face. His undivided attention was having a strong effect on her body despite all of the nerves, concentrating on one area in particular._ _

__“And, erm, being so patient with me.” She let her gaze drop, no longer able to meet his eye. “It helped…quite a bit.”_ _

__“You’re welcome, Stateira,” he said quietly. “Is there anything else?”_ _

__“N—oh! And have a good summer.” Smiling bashfully, she glanced at him before turning and walking to the door. She frowned; the door had completely closed, unnoticed, and when she grabbed the knob, it didn’t turn. Heartbeat now thudding in her ears, she turned back around and found herself face-to-face with Riddle._ _

__“Are you sure you’ve got nothing else to tell me?” He was smirking now, his voice teasing._ _

__His tone and proximity were creating a warmth inside her that spread through her stomach and legs as she nearly doubled over. “Well,” she finally said after licking her lips. “I think you can see the answer to that, sir.” She was surprised at how playful and steady her voice flowed out._ _

__He raised his eyebrows and chuckled softly. “Indeed I can.”_ _

Stateira’s mind was in uproar. She wanted him; she didn’t want him. _Get away, lass, get out_. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the turmoil and unable to form a coherent thought. 

__Then, she felt a warm breath and she was pulled forward by her hips. Her arms reached out, wrapping around his neck, as a cold hand held the side of her face and their lips met._ _

Over the dreadful summer of ’41, the Muggle and her nasty friend, Gertrude, had taken Stateira and Hollis for a rare treat to the cinema, a large room with seats facing an enormous screen, to view a film called _Alice in Wonderland_. Young Alice had fallen into an odd, unfamiliar world, and it was she who Stateira felt like now, kissing Professor Riddle, like Alice down the rabbit hole, but instead of bewildered, she was excited to enter this world— 

__Then he pulled away, gripped her by the shoulders, and sternly shook his head. “We can’t do this now.”_ _

__“Outside of Hogwarts—"_ _

__“It’s not Hogwarts. You are underage…”_ _

__“I’ll be 17 in August,” she said hurriedly, breathlessly._ _

__“Well, then.” The teasing tone was back as he touched her bottom lip with his thumb. “I shall see you in August.”_ _

~**~ ~**~


	5. Summer 1948

Stateira thought of nothing but him. She wrote letter after letter, but no, she would not send a single one. 

_You’re falling too hard, lass. You’re going to get hurt._ For reasons unknown, Stateira’s inner voice had the same inflections and accent as Grandma McElroy, the Blood Traitor’s mum. _Look at what your father’s done. People aren’t to be trusted so easily._

She spent many hot nights on her bed in a trance, replaying the last night of term. She often woke up with her hand and inner thighs slightly sticky, but that would only relieve the desire temporarily. The summer passed slowly, hazily, as she waited anxiously to return to Hogwarts. 

_20 August 1948  
Dear Professor Riddle, _

_I sit at my desk in my room and all I want is to be back in your office, in your arms. We wouldn’t have to stop; I’d let you go as far as you would like. Every night I long for your touch, your lips on mine, your voice in my ear. Oh, what we could do if we only had a chance! I wish for nothing more than for you to undress me and run your hands down…_

Without the restriction of an audience, Stateira was free to write explicitly. The letters and late-night exploration only seemed to exacerbate her unrest, but what else on Earth could she do in a stuffy flat in muggle London in the dead of summer? 

“ _Hollis—Stateira—dinner!_ ” Gran bellowed from the kitchen. Hollis, who’d been lying on his bed, tossing a ball lazily into the air, jumped up and left at once. His sister stayed behind to rip up her 160th letter, it seemed like, wishing she could just point her wand and burn it. That would guarantee less evidence, but her 17th birthday was still a week away. 

“STATEIRA!” 

“I’m coming,” she called hastily, rising from her chair. 

The small table in the kitchen was set for three, Gran and Hollis already eating. Stateira didn’t bother to ask if it was porridge; it was always porridge, regardless of the season. 

“Since you have trouble hearing, you shall deliver the tray to Calpurnia,” Gran told her. “And hurry, it’s getting cold already.” 

Stateira doubted any type of food was able to get cold in their sweltering flat. She took a step into the kitchen, turned toward the oven, and took out a cooking tray. As she loaded soup into a bowl, Gran said, “Tomorrow you two can go to Diagon Alley for your schoolbooks and robes now that the Hogwarts funds have come.” 

“I’m so excited to go to Hogwarts!” Hollis burst out, unable to contain himself; Gran forbade them to speak unless addressed. “What house do you think I’ll get in, sissy?” 

“Slytherin,” Stateira answered distractedly. 

“Of course you’ll be in Slytherin,” Gran piped up, temporarily forgetting her strict rule. “You’re a descendant of the Travers and we are part of the Sacred 28, after all. You will not pay for your blood traitor father’s mistakes…unless, of course, you don’t take a wife of worthy blood.”

When she talked about this, Stateira always found herself missing Grandma McElroy, who hadn’t given a toss about blood status. Unlike Gran, she had an abundance of patience and always told stories of “the good old days” even though she’d grown up dirt-poor in rural Ireland. It was quite a pity Stateira had stopped seeing Grandma McElroy when the Muggle kicked her out of their home. _Perhaps I should write her a letter, too_ , she thought as she carried the tray to her mum and gran’s shared room. _No, on second thought, it wouldn’t be wise. She probably thinks I’m out of my tree like the Muggle and Blood Traitor do._

Her mum was the one who was really out of her tree. Calpurnia Travers hadn’t seen the light of day since 1947. Now whole days passed while she lie in bed, woozy from the Draught of Peace. Perpetually dressed in a faded nightgown with a halo of grey, frizzy hair, Calpurnia was the family ghost, haunting everyone with the reminder of how destroyed their family had become. 

“Mum, time to eat,” Stateira said, placing the tray on the nightstand. 

Her mother didn’t move, her face pressed into a lumpy, sweaty pillow. 

“Mum,” Stateira repeated, louder. “Wake up. Time for supper.” She was overcome with the urge to grab her mum’s ratted hair and pull her out of the stinking bed. Somedays, she was sympathetic toward her mother, seeing how badly the Blood Traitor ruined her. Other days, like today, Stateira considered her less than a mother, less than a witch. Calpurnia could barely do magic anymore.

She shifted and rolled over, slowly opening her once-sparkling hazel eyes. By the time she’d fully awakened, her daughter had already gone, no longer able to view the pathetic sight in front of her. 

When Stateira got back to the table, Hollis had already been excused and her porridge had grown cold. “See, what did I tell you?” Gran admonished. “Don’t think you’re excused from washing the dishes, either, young lady.”

“Yes, madam.” 

After Stateira had eaten and cleaned up, she went into her room and told Hollis they had to retire early to get a good start tomorrow, since Diagon Alley was bound to be crowded that late in the summer. 

“Stateira?” Hollis asked from his bed 10 minutes after they’d turned out the light. “What if I don’t get into Slytherin? Will you and Gran hate me?” 

“Don’t be daft, brother,” Stateira replied impatiently. “It’s just a stupid House. Just don’t get into Gryffindor. They’re the worst.”

A minute of silence passed and again, her mind started to drift…

“Stateira?” 

“Merlin’s beard, Hollis, what _now_?” 

“Can you ask the Sorting Hat to place you in a specific House?” he asked, undeterred by her tone. 

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I doubt it. But you won’t know until September first, so shut up and go to sleep already.” 

She thought of her own Sorting, how the Hat had announced “SLYTHERIN!” almost immediately upon touching her head. Their whole family had been in Slytherin, including the Blood Traitor, so it had been far from a surprise. That had taken place in 1942, when Riddle was a fifth-year prefect; she remembered bits and pieces of his welcome speech. How handsome he’d been and how smooth he’d spoken even then. Underneath her quilt, Stateira hitched up her nightgown, but she had to wait until Hollis’ breaths came out heavy and even. 

They arrived in Diagon Alley around 10 the next morning, which, unfortunately, placed them in the thick of the crowds. They had intended to arrive earlier, but there was a spot of bother in the washroom of their flat. The tub had overflowed and the useless muggle hadn’t a clue how to fix it. A simple, surreptitious “ _Anapneo!_ ” would have cleared it up right, but frustratingly, Stateira still had six days before she could use magic. They’ll not pass any slower, she thought grumpily as she and Hollis weaved through the families. 

Praying she wouldn’t run into any of her classmates, Stateira came up with a strategy to get the expenditure over with as soon as possible. This was simple, as they only had to go to three stores: Madam Malkin’s, Flourish and Blotts, and Olivander’s. As they made their way through, Stateira kept her eye out for a tall man with black wavy hair, even though there wasn’t a reason for a professor to be in Diagon Alley at this time. 

She had to admit, Hollis’ excitement over his new willow and unicorn hair wand was contagious. She recalled her own adoration with her wand, made of hawthorn and phoenix feather. It suited her perfectly, like an extension of herself. Closer than any friend or relative, since her wand wouldn’t betray her—it was the one thing a witch could truly count on. 

“I can’t believe it,” Hollis said, inspecting his wand with glee. “This may be the first thing I’ve had that’s mine first.” 

He was not wrong; his books were passed down from Alexander to Stateira to him, his robes and cauldron secondhand. “Stateira?” he asked as they left Diagon Alley, walking through The Leaky Cauldron. “Why can’t we ever have anything new?” 

“Hello again, Tom,” she said to the young barman before replying. “Because we’re skint, Hollis. You’re now realizing this after 11 years?” 

“Well, we weren’t skint before Mum and Dad split, were we?” 

“No, we were not,” Stateira said matter-of-factly. “Say, why don’t you ask the Blood Traitor for money?” Every summer, he spent the month of July and half of August at their father’s house in Ireland. 

“I did,” Hollis replied, frowning, “but he says I’m too young to handle money, which is dumb, seeing as I’m _eleven_. So I asked him to give it to you, but he…said no to that, too.” 

Stateira snorted. “Probably doesn’t trust me after that ‘tuition’ tale I gave him.” She held out a hand to stop her brother from blindly crossing the street. They waited silently for the light to change and continued walking. A few muggles were giving them of looks, since they were dressed in robes, but both of them hardly noticed that anymore. 

“Why do you and Gran call him the Blood Traitor?” Hollis asked suddenly. 

Stateira rolled her eyes. “You can’t be that slow, Hollis.” 

“I mean, why don’t you call him Dad?” 

“Because, while he still may be your father, he’s no longer mine. He made that decision in ’39. No, ’41 actually. To his credit, he did try to keep up between ’39 and ’41, although his attempts were rather pathetic.” 

Hollis kept quiet. He didn’t like when his sister used that cold, condescending voice, and he hated that his family was split down the middle. He understood that his father did betray his mum, Stateira, and Alexander, but he couldn’t see why they loathed all muggles on principle. Nor his brother’s ambition to lead the Magic Army…

“Listen, brother, don’t concern yourself with politics,” Stateira said as if she’d been reading his mind. “You’ve got better things to think of, like Hogwarts. Say, I’ve got a sickle left; you want to get a sack of lemon drops from Goldstein’s?” 

Goldstein was a muggle shop owner on a corner about three blocks away from their flat. Goldstein’s husband was a wizard and accepted knuts and sickles as long as no muggles were present in the store.

Hollis nodded and the pair walked into the shop side by side, the rivalry over their father forgotten. 

 

_27 August 1948  
Dear Professor Riddle, _

_Today is my birthday and all I want is to see you, even if only for a moment. But of course I’m stuck here in London while you’re at Hogwarts (presumably) so all I can do is imagine you and get lost in your eyes. Did you know that those with dark eyes are attracted to that in their partners? This may explain why we_

Stateira was interrupted by Maisie, Gran’s old, half-blind owl soaring through the window. Just as she looked up, the owl dropped a bouquet of flowers on Stateira’s face. She yelped as they bounced off and fell into her lap. 

Confused, she picked up the bouquet and inspected it. Only a white ribbon was tied around the flowers, no note. Who on Earth—?

“This has got _Stateira’s_ name on it, you idiot bird!” Gran was hollering in the kitchen. 

Hollis, sweaty from running around the courtyard on the next block, ran into the room. “Stateira, have you seen that round, rubber—?” 

“Move it, Hollis!” Gran barked from the doorway, making him jump. Without hesitation, he slipped past her and disappeared, closing the front door behind him. 

“Stateira! Who in the name of Merlin is T.M. Riddle? And please do _not_ tell me he’s a mudblood.”

“He’s not,” she said hastily, suppressing a joyful smile. 

“Well, I don’t recognize that name, Riddle…” 

“He’s, erm, a friend from school. Half-blood, but he hates muggles,” she added. 

Eying the flowers in her lap warily, Gran tossed the letter at Stateira as if it was covered in Stinksap. As soon as her back was turned, Stateira ripped open the letter and ready it quickly:

_Dear Stateira,_

_Happy 17th birthday. At your earliest convenience, I would like very much if we could meet at the address on this envelope. Ring bell number three. I look forward to seeing you._

_Sincerely,  
Tom Riddle _

On the envelope, there was an unfamiliar address in Newham, a borough of London not too far from her own. Then she read the letter about 10 more times, running her fingers over the neat, elegant handwriting. 

It was going to have to be in the late evening. Gran usually retired around nine, and Stateira had to fix herself up without her noticing. Hollis didn’t go down until later, but she could buy his silence somehow, maybe take over the washing for the week. 

At 10:10, she was dressed in a black skirt and rosy pink silk blouse. Her hair was perfectly curled, her lips berry red, and her feet in high heels “borrowed” from Calpurnia from when Calpurnia had pride in herself. Together she and Hollis had balled up the washing on her bed in the shape of a tall, slender figure and tossed her quilt over it. 

“I’ll be back,” she assured him, closing her eyes. She was anxious about Apparition, which she hadn’t mastered in the lessons last term, but that was the only mode of transportation, as she didn’t know exactly where the place was. 

POP! A horribly painful few seconds later, she appeared on a quiet, dark street, feeling like she’d just been squeezed from head to toe by giant hands. The building number was 401 and she was in front of 356, so she walked further down the block. 

It wasn’t the best area for a woman to be walking alone so late, as evidenced by the many stares and catcalls she was receiving. It appeared to be one of the last places to be cleaned up from the bombs. She kept her hand on her wand, praying she wouldn’t have to use it. If she broke the Statute of Secrecy, not only could she have been facing charges and another risk of getting expelled from Hogwarts, Gran would have flown into an ear-shattering fit of rage. Luckily, her scowl seemed to ward off any advances. 

Finally she was in front of Number 401, a nondescript, two-story brick building. She rang bell number three and waited, her nervous system on overdrive. 

A minute later, the door opened and there he stood, dressed in black and as handsome as ever. “Good evening, Stateira. Come in.”

With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her up a flight of creaky wooden stairs and down a carpeted hallway to a door on the left. 

The flat was old, but clean and very bare, so much so that it looked like nobody lived there. But Riddle didn’t live there, did he? Not for long, anyway. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing to a small table with two chairs. 

“No, thank you,” she replied, smoothing down her skirt as she sat, wiping her sweaty palms on it. She was glad that the flat was much colder than outside. 

“Are you sure? I could go get you something…” 

“Oh no, it’s fine, sir,” Stateira assured him. “I, erm, ate before I came.” That was a lie; she’d been too nervous to eat then, and she was sure she was too nervous to eat now. 

Riddle went into the kitchen for a moment, and she took long breaths, trying to calm herself. Now that the fantasy she’d had all summer was morphing into reality, she wasn’t sure she wanted it. Her mother, lying in bed like she was paralyzed, sapped of magic, flashed in her mind. _Relax_ , she told herself. _You will let no one put you there._

“I heard from Abraxas Malfoy that rosemary is your favorite,” Riddle said as he came back out, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. 

Stateira smiled, remembering her silly, fleeting crush on Malfoy, who was close to a prepubescent boy in comparison to Professor Riddle. Consequently, she made the same mistake she’d made at Slughorn’s party by underestimating the potency of the champagne again. After three glasses—it tasted so smooth; who bothered to count?—her vision was slightly fuzzy. So far she and Riddle had only talked about her summer, her marks, all about her, so she decided to change the subject. 

“I thought you lived at Hogwarts, sir,” she said, looking around the small sitting room. A narrow hallway led to a door that she assumed was a bedroom. She realized she hadn’t an idea how to address him in this circumstance. It clearly wasn’t a professor-student dynamic—they were more like companions. He was only five years her senior, a smaller difference between she and Alexander, yet Riddle seemed so much older. 

“I do live at Hogwarts,” he replied. “I’m only borrowing this place from a friend for a bit.” He poured her another glass as she eyed his untouched one. Had he even taken a sip?

“Why aren’t you drinking, sir?” 

“You sure do ask a lot of questions, darling.” He smiled at her and she could tell he was trying to charm her away from her observation, but she didn’t care all that much. 

“I’m tired of talking about myself,” she informed him. “It’s all dull. You’ve seen most of it anyway.” 

“What would you like to talk about?” 

Stateira looked at Riddle and marveled at how one could be Head Boy and killer simultaneously. _I should be bothered that he killed his father_. But she wasn’t, not a measurable amount. She knew hatred, having seen it first-hand from Alexander. 

Lost in her head, she didn’t notice Riddle had stood up and moved closer. “Stateira,” he said, holding out his hand, “come follow me.”

She took it, and in her exhaustion, she didn’t realize where he was taking her. They walked down the hall and into the bedroom. It was dark in there, only a dull streetlight shining through the window. 

Now the intention was clear; everything Stateira had been daydreaming and writing letters of was about to occur. Once the door was locked, Riddle didn’t waste time, grabbing her hips and kissing her. Eyes closed, she let all of her thoughts float away and the hunger take over, pulling on his shirt and tie. She was walking backward as he was pushing her slightly toward the bed. A minute later, she was lying down and he was pulling her blouse open, tearing off the buttons. She heard them clinking on the floor as her breathing sped up and up…

 _No, lass, don’t do it_ , said her inner voice unexpectedly. _Don’t let him take you_. She was so thrown off, her body tensed up, and she fully realized the implications of what she was doing. Her mum, long ago when she was awake, had advised her not to give herself up to someone she wasn’t sure she loved. Although Stateira’s opinion of Calpurnia wasn’t high as of late, her advice applied to this very situation.

“Wait,” she whispered. 

Riddle didn’t hear her; he bunched up her skirt in his hands and yanked it up. 

“Professor!” Her voice came out a bit shriller than intended, but it did cause him to stop. 

“I—It’s my first time,” she stammered. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

For a moment, Riddle’s grip tightened on her skirt and it looked as though he was about to rip it off of her. Then he let go and calmly held up a finger. “I’ll be back in one minute,” he said genially. 

He left the room and Stateira sat up and smoothed down her skirt, bewildered and slightly afraid. Was he angry at her? Was he getting his wand—no. His wand was here; he’d locked the door—

When he returned, he was holding a tiny jar with sparkling, translucent red liquid inside. “Here, drink this, darling.”

“What is it?” she asked, but she was slightly in awe of the glittering red flecks swirling around the jar. 

“It’s similar to a Calming Drought. Try it.”

She opened the jar and sniffed it. It smelled sweet, like the strawberry juice Grandma McElroy used to give her in the summer. Before she could think any longer, she raised the bottle to her lips and threw her head back. It was very bubbly, stronger than seltzer, which burnt her throat a bit. 

As soon as it dropped into her stomach, Stateira’s vision grew fuzzy again, more than it had before. Her skin was burning hot, and she could feel a deep flush rising to her cheeks. It felt like she was lying in the prefect’s bathtub, sinking into the wonderful, warm water but still able to breathe steadily. Her head met the pillow as she opened her mouth eagerly, accepting Riddle’s kiss. What on Earth had she been so fussed about? His touch made the entire summer worth it. 

After he shed her clothes, he climbed on top of her, wrapping her hair around one hand, holding her face with the other. A sharp pain made her cry out, but even that brought waves of pleasure after a moment. “Alright, darling?” he said softly in her ear. 

“Yes,” she breathed, clutching him against her, nails digging into his back, as tears pricked her eyes. She knew she wouldn’t regret this. Who better than handsome and brilliant Professor Riddle to give herself to? 

 

Ten black-robed, hooded young men sat at a large cherry wood table in the dining hall of a handsome manor atop a hillside next to a village called Little Hangleton. Although the manor was lavishly furnished and well-kept, no one had lived there for years. 

Nine of the young men were known by name: James Avery, Felix Lestrange, Kenneth Nott, Victor Mulciber, Orion Black, Cygnus Black, Abraxas Malfoy, Sequitur Delmont, and Icarus Yaxley. The tenth, who sat at the head of the table and dominated the discussion, was known as Lord Voldemort. 

“I had thought there would be three of you,” the Dark Lord said, frowning at the end of the row to his left. 

"We thought so, too, my Lord,” said Abraxas Malfoy, who had been to a meeting once before. “But Alphard, erm, had prior engagements.” His voice was slightly tinged with fear of displeasing the Dark Lord, which never ended well. 

“Very well. Cygnus,” Lord Voldemort said to the dark-haired man halfway down the table in the right row. “It would be in your best interest to ensure that your brother will not get in my way.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Cygnus replied nervously. His brother didn’t seem interested in the cause, but as long as Alphard didn’t start consorting with muggles, Cygnus wouldn’t worry too much about him for now. 

“Now…you two attend Hogwarts, yes?” 

“Yes, sir.” Icarus Yaxley’s voice came out in an unflattering squeak. Next to him, Sequitur Delmont seemed unable to move or speak. He hadn’t spoken a word since their arrival. 

“You know at least two mudbloods in your year…”

They both knew plenty, but neither could recall any names, since they refused to interact with lesser than pure blood. 

“You will learn their names,” the Dark Lord said as if there had been a thought bubble over the boys’ heads. “You will learn where their families live, what they do, which relative they are closest to, and whom in that family you will kill.

“If you are not confident in your ability to perform the Killing Curse, there are other ways that involve more creativity and secrecy. As long as they die, consider it done, and you will swear to me your allegiance. Is that clear?”  
Delmont’s eyes were bulging slightly, while Yaxley’s fear was more contained. Malfoy, who’d been assigned the same task the meeting prior, simply stared. 

“Yes, my Lord,” Yaxley finally said. 

“You _each_ need to agree.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Delmont said quickly, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. 

“Excellent. I urge you to take your time and plan carefully. There is no time limit on proving your full loyalty to Lord Voldemort.”

Malfoy had fully recovered; he already knew which mudblood he was going to choose. Delmont was slowly realizing the depths he was required to sink to, while Yaxley’s mind was currently unable to function. 

The three of them were excused, for the Dark Lord and his inner circle hadn’t concluded their meeting. He preferred to get the welcome speech out of the way before moving onto more important subjects.

“What do you reckon?” Delmont, the most unsure of the trio, leaned in and said to Yaxley as they left the manor. 

“I reckon some mudbloods are going to die soon,” Yaxley responded, voice raised in false bravado. 

Malfoy turned to them and put his finger to his lips. The moonlight glinted off his lotion-stiff blonde hair, casting the rest of them in shadow. “Lower your voice, idiot,” he hissed. “By the way, Bones in Hufflepuff is mine.” 

Without another word, he Disapparated into the night, and the other two followed suit. 

 

Still in his hooded black robe, Tom Riddle sat on the bed in his flat in Newham, reflecting on the meeting in his father’s house. Three more promises, if they all would actually show as much bravery as they pretended to have. Even just Malfoy would be a tremendous gain, for the others would join by default eventually. 

And the unexpected Knight. He dragged the pads of his fingers over a particular spot on the blanket stained by two dark red blotches. Any girl could be seduced, but McElroy had a multitude of uses. Last night, he had ensured her willingness to carry them out. 

If he had to choose between using magic or charm, Tom would have chosen the former without a doubt, though the latter was very close to the top, due to its ease and the instant pleasure it provided. As a student at Hogwarts, he had reserved his charm, believing it to be finite, to the professors—except Dumbledore—and prefects. Girls were of no use to him. Their only purposes were breed and comfort a wizard, and Tom hadn’t wanted comfort or children. The only exception was Lysandra Bell, who was currently at the tail end of Auror Training. Not much of a looker, but very quick-witted and sharp. It was a shame she was such a muggle-lover. 

Girls—those silly creatures drove even the sanest man mental. Tom had wanted nothing to do with them. Then in 1944, the summer between his sixth and seventh year, he met Gellert Grindelwald. 

One of his classmates, Felix Lestrange, had a way of contacting Grindelwald. His family, wealthy and pureblood like Malfoy’s, had been benefactors to the cause. During the previous term, Tom had taken Lestrange, Avery, Nott, and Mulciber to the Chamber and revealed that he was the true heir of Slytherin. As predicted, they had laughed and doubted him, so he threatened to summon the basilisk. Before they could scoff again, he turned to the entrance and said “open” in Parseltongue. All of those little boys were frightened and attentive then. Tom closed the Chamber and told them he had a plan to rule over their inferiors, but the others had to buy their way in. “And not with money,” he’d added. 

Felix Lestrange’s task was to contact Grindelwald and set up a meeting. He had told him that Tom wanted to join the Magic Army, but Tom had wanted no such thing. 

The meeting took place on 25th August 1944. Grindelwald had just taken over Magical France, a large victory. “About a country a day,” he’d remarked at some point during the meeting.

They had met in a small cottage somewhere in the fields of Poland. Tom had been instructed to walk down a dirt road for nearly two hours, unable to do magic. Just when he wondered if it was a trap, a girl around his age with long, flat blonde hair appeared, grasped his arm, and Apparated them to the cramped kitchen of a cottage. It had been awfully hot and bright outside, and the place was cool and dark in contrast. 

“Who are you?” the girl asked suspiciously. Round-faced with slanted blue eyes, she looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t conjure a name. “Why are you here?” 

“My name is Marvolo Gaunt,” he told her. “I’ve requested a meeting with our Leader, and I was told to come today.” 

With an unwavering glare, she left the kitchen. Tom looked around. It was oddly cozy and normal; someone seemed to have cooked often. 

She reappeared, frowning in annoyance, but the suspicion had left. “Follow me, Mr. Gaunt.” He was roughly pulled down a dark hall and to a bare sitting room containing a velvet armchair, a grey sofa, and a large stone fireplace. 

Gellert Grindelwald sat on the sofa, drinking vodka and ice in a tall glass. He was dressed in handsome, grey wool robes, and his blonde hair was slicked back into a ponytail. When Tom and the girl entered the room, Grindelwald stood up and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gaunt.” He had an odd sort of British-American accent. 

Slightly taken aback by such a personal greeting, Tom shook his hand. As Grindelwald took his seat, the girl nudged Tom on the shoulder. “Sit on the armchair,” she commanded.

“Lesya, won’t you please be nice for a moment?” Grindelwald snapped at her. “He is our guest; you mustn’t be so rude.” 

Lesya’s face flushed and her eyes went wide. “Of course, dear Gellert, my apologies.” The slight desperation in her voice gave Tom the urge to smile with satisfaction. She turned back to him. “Mr. Gaunt,” she said with false cheer, “if you would like to continue, our Leader requires your wand.” 

As much as he didn’t want to give it up, Tom was not terribly concerned. He was skilled enough by then in wandless magic, but he preferred not to use it. 

As he extended his wand, Lesya, with her back to Grindelwald, took it and gave Tom a look of such intense loathing, he had to work to keep his face straight. How cute she is, he thought snidely, with all of that childish fury over being scolded like a little girl. 

“Now Mr. Gaunt, what can I do for you, boy? Hang on—let’s get you a drink. Lesya, be a doll and please make him a glass, and refill mine, too.”

Lesya, who had taken a seat moments previously, rose up, now blank-faced, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

“I would like to know how I could pledge my allegiance to you and join the Magic Army.” His voice came out clear and concise. “Your ideals should be applied through the entire world, sir, and I believe I will be very useful in strategy.”

“You are quite young,” Grindelwald noted abruptly. 

“I am 17, sir.”

“Have you had any schooling?”

“I attend Hogwarts, sir.”

Grindelwald took a gulp of his drink. Tom realized that he was going to have to drink his eventually. He’d never drank before and hated the idea of his mind being clouded by alcohol. But by the way the man before him, the one who’d effectively turned Wizarding Europe on its head, was eyeing his drink, there simply wasn’t an alternative. When Tom took a large sip, he was pleasantly surprised that he liked the burn in his throat. 

“Is Professor Dumbledore the headmaster yet?” 

“No, sir.” 

“He will be soon,” Grindelwald said. “He certainly loves his school. Pity that his ideas are dangerous and unrealistic.”

“I agree, sir.”

Grindelwald was staring at him intently, which was rather uncomfortable, as Tom was used to having the upper hand in intimidation. “Yet you fight strongly against Dumbledore’s influence for different reasons, it seems.”

Tom hadn’t expected Legilimency within the first 15 minutes, but he was prepared nonetheless. Grindelwald frowned as he probed the barrier. 

“I don’t allow Occlumency during meetings, Mr. Gaunt,” he said coolly. 

Lesya, sensing danger, turned her avid gaze from Grindelwald to Tom, her blue eyes holding a glimmer of excitement.

Tom could have protested and taken his leave, but there was a chance it could cause slight difficulty with his plan. It would not have been the nail in the coffin, but having Grindelwald as an ally rather than enemy was beneficial. Slowly, reluctantly, he let down some of the barriers. The incriminating memories, such as his father’s murder and his Horcruxes, were buried safely enough. Helpfully, Grindelwald was not interested in Tom himself but in his interactions with Dumbledore. 

One in particular had played out in its entirety: a friendly debate Dumbledore and Tom had rather recently about the power of love. Dumbledore had seemed to believe in it so thoroughly, so blindly, and Tom couldn’t fathom how an emotion could be stronger than magic. “Love is magic in its own way,” Dumbledore had said. 

“Interesting,” Grindelwald remarked as he withdrew. Then he turned to Lesya and tenderly held both of her hands. “My darling girl, unfortunately I will need to speak to Mr. Gaunt alone now. Won’t you be a doll and make that delicious salmon and potatoes you are fond of?” 

“Of course, dear Gellert,” Lesya replied, nearly falling off the sofa in enthusiasm. He smiled at her and the effects were profound: a flush of pleasure tinged her round cheeks, her lips parted, and her eyes filled with reverence. It was clear that she adored _dear Gellert_ , worshiped him even. 

“Be sure to close the kitchen door behind you, darling,” he said at her retreating form. 

“Of course, dear Gellert.”

There was a pause as the two wizards listened to the door closing quietly and the cackling of the fire. “ _Muffliato!_ ” Grindelwald whispered. 

“Let me tell you a story, my boy,” he said after finishing his glass. “You see that girl, Lesya? She is 16. She was on the path to becoming the next Minister of Magic in Russia, since her father is the current one. Then”—he smiled in a familiar way, one Tom was used to giving—“she met me.”

He leaned closer, looking relaxed and amused. “She ran away and joined me. Have you heard of the Munich March? It occurred in autumn of last year…”

Tom did remember something in the paper about an orchestrated march of wizards flooding the streets and cursing every muggle on sight. It had been quite a headache for the German Ministry to wipe the memories of masses of muggles, fix the city, and explain the casualties. Then Tom recalled where he had seen Lesya’s face before: the Daily Prophet had used her Durmstrang class picture to show the suspected organizer of the Munich March of 1943. 

“Do you know why, Mr. Gaunt,” Grindelwald continued, “Little Lesya left her family to join the Magic Army? She believes in The Greater Good, oh yes, but her motivation is much more selfish. Simply put, she is in love with me.”

“Yes, that is clear, sir,” Tom replied, failing to make the connection. 

“You don’t believe love is power but human weakness. What, excluding magic, do you think is stronger than love?” 

“Fear, sir,” he blurted. Merlin, he’d been too far gone already. 

Grindelwald chuckled as if he was talking to a child, which slightly irritated Tom. Dumbledore had reacted in a similar fashion. 

“Oh boy, there is much you’ve not experienced. Tell me, when you rise to power, will you strive to be the most feared or the most admired?” 

Tom’s mouth nearly dropped open. “From where did you take the idea that I wish to rise to power, sir?” 

The older man chuckled once more. “Boy, you can’t fool me. Your persuasion is uncanny, but you are speaking to the master of persuasion. How do you think I’ve gotten this far?”

He leaned in even closer, speaking softly and seriously now. “When you blatantly exploit your power over others by utilizing fear as a tool, two things occur. One, you acquire many enemies and while many will fail to defeat you, you run the risk of, one day, a match succeeding. You are above the average wizard in both intelligence and skill, Mr. Gaunt; I can see that…but even the most brilliant get caught up in the thrill.”

Tom was listening, for it was polite to do so, but he was not planning on considering the proposed possibility. No adversary would ever be as powerful as he; that would be for certain. 

“Number two,” Grindelwald continued after a pause, “which may pertain to you in the near future: your followers. They will follow the man with all of the control, whether that is you or not. If you slip, they will move on to the next best sorcerer if they don’t feel any certain way toward you. If they love you, their loyalty will not waver. Lesya did not want to follow the path her parents had set for her; she felt abandoned and confused, miserable and weak, for she knew she would never please them.” 

That hollow smile crossed his face again as his pale blue eyes lit up with cold mirth. “I’m her _savior_. She will do anything I ask of her. If I say it will please me, she'll be on her knees, begging me to carry it out. All I’ve got to do is feed into her shallow desires.”

“With all due respect, sir, 16-year-old girls are _mental_ ,” Tom argued, his tongue loosened by the vodka. “Even the intelligent ones.”

“The mental ones are the easiest.” Grindelwald was grinning broadly now. “They are not restrained by typical logic and reasoning.”

He leaned back triumphantly, knowing he’d at least gotten Tom to contemplate his words. They sat face-to-face for a couple of minutes before Grindelwald flicked his wand, opening the kitchen door, and called, “How is the salmon coming along, my dear? Sure smells delicious!”

“Only a few more minutes, dear Gellert!” Lesya called back cheerfully. They heard her singing softly to herself and arranging dishes. 

Grindelwald turned to Tom, his smile now amicable instead of cold. “You will stay for supper, won’t you, Mr. Gaunt?”

Tom’s mind was slightly hazy, and he was anxious to get his wand back. “No, sir, I’d better get back. My, er, my mum doesn’t know I’ve left, you see.” 

They shook hands once more and Grindelwald returned Tom’s wand. “Finish Hogwarts and come back for induction into the Army. And think of what we spoke about today.” He gave one last friendly wink. 

When Tom arrived back at Wool’s orphanage, it was around 8:00 in the evening in London time. This was fortunate, as Mrs. Cole, drunk herself by that hour, assumed he’d gone to bed early. Each of the older kids had a job to do in the evenings, but by then no one would chance an encounter with Mad Tom Riddle. 

Immediately upon reflection of his meeting with the most powerful Dark wizard in the last few centuries, Tom had determined that he was greater. Either Grindelwald would be defeated by Dumbledore or killed by Lord Voldemort eventually. His true reason in seeking out Grindelwald was to confirm this hypothesis, and he had. Gellert Grindelwald was no match for Lord Voldemort. His words meant nothing, and Tom had thought of them only once more before he finished Hogwarts. 

Early in his seventh year, the Daily Prophet had come with an article about a wanted witch named Lesya Karimova. The young, round-faced, former Durmstrang elite had placed her own parents and uncle under the Imperius Curse to infiltrate the Russian Ministry of Magic. The Daily Prophet had dubbed her “Grindelwald’s Girl” and speculated how such a model student with a promising future could have fallen so far into the Dark Arts. 

The article backed up Grindelwald’s argument of devotion, but Tom still had been unconvinced. He hadn’t known of any females that were the winning mix of clever and crazy like Lesya was. Hogwarts girls were only interested in marriage and romance. Not many would submit to him and let him do the things he really wished to do to them. So Grindelwald’s advice had been forgotten. Then, along came Stateira McElroy. 

Still seated on the bed in his dark flat, Tom removed his black robe, shirt, and pants. Before he lie on the bed, he touched the dark spots on the blanket again, smirking. He had found his Lesya. Little McElroy, with her fragile mind and dysfunctional family, simply adored him. She could not be labeled “sane” from her reaction to his Pensieve memory. She had passed the test with flying colors. In her sickness, she would be an asset. 

Now, after that consummation, the girl would soon fall in love. A little more indulgence and she would give him everything she had to offer and sit at his side regardless of circumstance. He needed many followers to rule, but only one to be completely and ultimately his. 

Tom had a nice, solid plan for her.

~**~ ~**~


	6. Autumn 1948

ATTACKS ON MUGGLES AND MUGGLEBORNS INCREASE read the 1st September 1948 edition of the Daily Prophet. A group declaring themselves the “Knights of Walpurgis” were going round dressed in skull masks and black hooded robes and casting Killing Curses in what seemed to be random dwellings. The method was to cast a curse on one adult and Disapparate. No one had known anything else until Edward Dorsey, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, let slip that all targeted families had at least one muggle, and it was that muggle who was killed in five out of six cases. The sixth was a muggleborn wizard. 

Sometime over the summer, the air of the Great Hall at Hogwarts had changed. Even before the Sorting, the older students—those who paid attention—sensed the different atmosphere. There were layers of tension: no one seemed genuinely content and relaxed. Professors and students alike were divided. 

Stateira McElroy stood rigidly near the back of the Hall, eyes on the Slytherin table, excitement coursing through her veins. In contrast to almost everyone else, she was excited about her last year of Hogwarts, being out of London, and most of all, seeing Professor Riddle. He was sitting a mere 10 feet from the table, but Stateira didn’t dare glance at him and let him see that she’d thought of little else over the past three days other than their encounter. 

Only the Sorting was able to distract her: This year, Hollis would sit on the old stool while the Hat contemplated in which house he belonged. He’d nearly had a meltdown on the train despite his sister assuring him it didn’t matter. 

The lot of first-years was slightly smaller than previous years, due to the recent attacks. A few families had been reluctant to send their mixed-blood children to Hogwarts. The smallest class size of all had been in 1943, Stateira remembered, because of the petrifications the year prior. 

Edwina Boot and Alphard Black, Head Girl and Boy, entered the Great Hall from the side doors. Out in the corridor, the first-years chatted excitedly, some peering their heads in trying to catch a good look at the starry sky of the Great Hall. 

The Sorting Hat sang a strange song about trouble ahead, which struck many as odd but not exactly surprising. Then the Sorting began; tentative first-year steps to the old stool preceded bellows of “GRYFFINDOR! RAVENCLAW!” and so on. Finally the cry of the Hat that mattered most to Stateira: 

“McElroy, Hollis!”

A miniature version of Alexander, except with tighter curls, lighter skin, and freckled cheeks, walked across the platform, dark eyes wide with nervousness. Merrythought placed the Hat on his head and…and…

Minutes passed by in silence as every eye glued itself to Hollis, who looked in danger of vomiting. Just when Merrythought reached her hand out and opened her mouth, presumably ready to call a Hatstall, the Hat gave a startling bellow. 

“RAVENCLAW!” 

Stateira had thought his face couldn’t possibly grow paler, but her brother’s skin was pearl-white with a sheen of sweat. He glanced at her fearfully, but she was clapping along. She winked and gave him a thumbs-up, and he visibly relaxed. 

Some of her fellow Slytherins were giving her looks, but she kept her face blank and her eyes on the next to be sorted: a tall, thin, black-haired girl who strode confidently to the stool when Merrythought called, “McGonagall, Minerva!” 

“GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat shouted after quite a bit. Minerva gave a triumphant nod, as if she’d known all along she was a Gryffindor despite the amount of time it took to conclude that. _Great, another Antonia Longbottom_ , Stateira thought. 

After the Sorting came the feast, for which she was grateful because it was easier to keep her eyes away from Riddle when he was far from view. 

“Did you all read the Prophet this morning?” Abraxas Malfoy asked quietly as they ate. 

The surrounding seventh-years shook their heads except for Icarus Yaxley, who grinned. 

Next to Stateira, Beryl Fawley and Druella Rosier were talking animatedly about their summer vacations abroad, which were apparently crawling with fanciable men. Stateira decided that the boys’ conversation was infinitely more interesting. 

“…that’s why Beckmann isn’t here,” Malfoy was saying. “They got his cousin or uncle, I can’t recall which…” 

“Who is ‘they’?” Alphard Black asked, frowning. 

“The Knights, of course,” Yaxley told him, helping himself to more turkey breast. “Beckmann’s uncle or whomever was a muggle. The Dark Lord wants them gone. It’s not difficult to deduce, Black.”

“But who is this Dark Lord?” Stateira asked, unable to contain her curiosity. “I know he wants to purify the race and all that, but who actually is he?”

“How should _we_ know, McElroy?” Yaxley replied rather snidely. “Not even his followers know his name.” 

“He must be a Sacred 28.” Stateira said it to herself, and no one agreed nor disagreed. So they truly didn’t know, she supposed. The subject was dropped for the remainder of the feast. 

After that, the prefects were to escort the first-years to their common rooms, and Edwina Boot took the Ravenclaws before Stateira and Hollis could speak. _He’ll be fine._

“First years, this way, please!” she called, motioning them to line up in front of Crabbe, the fifth-year prefect. All of them left the table and did as they were told, except for a particularly tiny little girl with poker-straight blonde hair cut to her chin and tear-filled blue eyes. She was clutching her arms, lips trembling, as if the temperature of the Great Hall was below freezing. 

Stateira approached her and placed a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Hello,” she said kindly. “What’s your name?” 

“Astoria Greengrass,” the girl whimpered. 

“What’s the matter, Astoria?” 

“I—I miss my mum.” Fat tears leaked out of her eyes, running down her cheeks. It was a rather pathetic display, but Stateira forced her hand to stroke the girl’s hair. 

“Don’t cry, darling. You will have a wonderful experience here at Hogwarts. You’re in the best House of all; Slytherins always take care of each other. Come now, let’s go see the common room.” She hated using the stupidly high, falsely cheerful voice, although she was proud of how convincing it was. 

Astoria did not stop crying, but she finally rose from the table and let Stateira guide her out of the Great Hall and down the corridors, taking care not to separate from the girl in the crowd of older-years. 

Alphard Black had just finished up his welcome speech; he turned to the two girls as they approached. In response to his quizzical look, Stateira explained, “Astoria here is feeling a bit homesick. Let’s make her as comfortable as we can.”

Luckily, Astoria had wondered away dry-eyed, marveling at the serpent stone carvings around the common room. Many of the others were doing the same, looking out the green-tinged windows into the lake’s abyss, while older-years were in the dormitories unpacking or talking in small groups around the fire. Stateira was about to call the first-year girls to attention so she could lead them to the dormitories when Black stepped toward her and leaned in close to her ear. 

“The Dark Lord’s given name is unknown, but the Knights call him Lord Voldemort.”

“Lord Voldemort?” she repeated, trying it out. It was certainly fitting for a Dark Lord. 

Black hastily pressed a finger to his lips. “Do not ever repeat it to anyone else. Only his Knights are supposed to know of it.”

“Are you a…Knight?” she asked quietly. 

“No,” he replied hurriedly. “I know because Cygnus…” His face darkened as he trailed off. 

“You don’t look too pleased with him for it,” Stateira remarked. 

Both pairs of dark eyes met and she immediately regretted voicing her observation. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. 

“No, it’s alright, Stateira,” Black said, back to his usual unfussed manner. “I am neither pleased nor displeased with it. I simply don’t know what to make of the whole thing.”

“Hmm, neither do I.” She gave him a winning smile. “Thanks for telling me, Alphard. Don’t worry, I’m quite a good secret keeper.” She winked, and she could tell he was pleasantly flustered. 

“No problem,” he said, cheeks slightly pink. 

_Lord Voldemort_ , she said in her head as she led the girls up the stairs. _Similar to Grindelwald, less powerful, or more?_

 

After showing the first-year Ravenclaw girls to their dormitories, Edwina Boot entered the common room to see a young boy standing next to Rowena Ravenclaw’s statue, looking lost and seemingly unsure of what to do with himself. 

A flash of annoyance at the prefect boys passed through her. _They couldn’t be arsed to count them properly?_ As she stepped toward the first-year, she recognized him from the Sorting: Hollis McElroy. He had the same shade of light brown hair and sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks as his sister. 

“Hello,” Edwina said tentatively. “Hollis, isn’t it?” 

The boy nodded, looking at his feet. He was wearing worn-out shoes and a secondhand robe; evidently his father was still not contributing much to the family. 

“Nice to meet you, Hollis. My name is Edwina Boot. I’m Head Girl and a fellow Ravenclaw, so I’ll be glad to help you with anything.”

“I’m not supposed to be in Ravenclaw,” the boy blurted. 

Edwina cocked her head to the side. 

“I should be in Slytherin. My sister doesn’t care, but my gran will hate me.” His voice had a tense, high pitch to it. “My whole family has been in Slytherin.” 

Edwina placed a calm hand on his shoulder. “Hollis, please don’t stress. The Hat wouldn’t have placed you in Ravenclaw if you don’t belong here. Your gran undoubtedly sees your intelligence and creativity.”

Hollis was still looking skeptical, but he nodded. “I suppose. Well, erm, I’ll be getting to my dormitory now. It was nice to meet you, Edwina.”

“Likewise.” She watched him leave before turning away. 

The next day, the first of classes, Edwina took her usual seat next to Stateira McElroy in Transfiguration. Since it was their first class, Professor Dunst took his time gathering his things together, giving his NEWT class time to chat. 

“I’m so terribly sorry I didn’t write!” Edwina said to Stateira. “I forgot your address.” It was not a lie; much to her chagrin, she’d immediately forgot the street name upon returning to the castle. If she’d had an owl, it wouldn’t have mattered, but the Post Owlery did not accept anything less than a full address. 

“It’s alright,” Stateira replied distractedly. “I’ll write it down for you.” On a piece of parchment, she wrote _127 Irvington Alley, unit 4, Lambeth, London_ in neat script. 

“How was your summer?” Edwina asked. 

Stateira passed her the parchment and as she looked up, Edwina could see a rare twinkle in her dark eyes. “Oh, it was wonderful. How was yours?” 

Edwina’s had been dreadful, but she didn’t want to rain on the party. “Alright, I suppose.”

Professor Dunst entered the classroom then and began the class, so Edwina was not able to bring up Hollis. It was probably best not to speak of it just yet anyway. 

 

Seven sixth-years had their full, silent attention on Tom Riddle as he gave the same speech he’d given the previous year. Thankfully, this batch was somewhat competent enough to accept it without question. 

There was a girl in the back that reminded him unpleasantly of a past matron at the orphanage. Unlike her counterparts, she sat up straight, surveying him with a slightly shrewd expression. As he had them state their names, Tom gently sank into her mind, pulling up a memory from sometime last term of McElroy leaving his office. Then an older one, sitting next to her on the grounds, laughing—

“My name is Antonia Longbottom,” she said briskly, "of Ravenclaw."

He assumed this was seventh-year Longbottom’s sister, especially since she, like he, was blonde, plump, and observant of her surroundings. And a former friend of McElroy by the looks of it. 

There was nothing of note in the first lesson. The sixth-year students all seemed eager and capable, with none standing out as magically superior. 

Come to think of it, his seventh-year class was similar, except a few had a higher level of talent than the rest. This familiar class contained his future Knights, who were all thinking of plans to carry out the Dark Lord’s task. This class was easier to teach, used to his style and pace. Even Prewett, once insufferable, was toned down by recent association with Alphard Black, Head Boy. Head Girl was Ravenclaw Edwina Boot, who Tom had recommended to Dippet. Boot’s presence wasn’t very commanding, but she, too, was sharp and showed academic excellence. 

Ah, and there was McElroy looking at him with adoration in her eyes, knuckle to mouth, wanting him the exact way he’d predicted. He allowed a brief scene to pass through his mind: he, pushing her onto the desk in front of him, lifting her skirt, and taking her as she cried out and threw her head back. _Don’t you wish you knew Legilimency now, darling?_ Then, without further ado, he started his NEWT speech. 

Instead of starting the class with practice, Tom followed the old curriculum and discussed the theory of defending oneself against the Imperius Curse. It was going to be an interesting year, he thought, as he watched his Knights-in-training. Yaxley and Malfoy were diligently writing, exchanging smirks every so often. Delmont was less ecstatic with his task but determined all the same. Next to him sat Alphard Black, who seemed to be pulling away from the Slytherins and gravitating toward Prewett. Couldn’t have that; Black was the only one of the Slytherins and his family that wasn’t interested in the cause. 

When the class ended, Tom told them he wanted a two-foot essay on methods of resisting the Imperius Curse. “And Alphard Black, please see me after class.” 

 

As his classmates filed out, Alphard Black remained seated, bag packed, wondering what on Earth Professor Riddle wanted him for. Abraxas, Icarus, and Sequitur all slapped him lightly on the back, bidding him goodbye, but none seemed remotely curious. 

Riddle was writing on a piece of parchment, silent at first. Then after another minute, he folded it in half and beckoned Alphard to sit in the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Black.”

Alphard did as he was told. 

“I want to say congratulations on making Head Boy. I can’t speak for the other professors, but I know that I, along with Professor Slughorn, had recommended you.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Alphard, mildly surprised. “I appreciate that.” 

Riddle nodded, folding the piece of parchment once more. “I’m not sure if you remember, but I was Head Boy also, in 1945.”

“I do remember, sir,” Alphard said. “You got on with my brother, Cygnus, and my cousin, Orion.” 

“Yes, I was rather close with both of them at school, although they are a couple of years younger. No matter, as Cygnus and I are still well-acquainted.”

Alphard had remembered Cygnus and Riddle fraternizing at Hogwarts, but he was surprised that they still consorted, since Cygnus’ priority these days was the Dark Lord. A slight ripple of discomfort passed through his stomach. 

“I understand you’ve been a bit distant from your brother and cousin lately because of their…ideals.” 

“It’s not their ideals, sir,” Alphard said quickly. The last thing he needed was his Head of House questioning whether a Black heir was a true Slytherin. “It’s their decision to follow this…Dark Lord. I don’t want to join the Knights, sir, but I think they—Cygnus and Orion want me to.” 

“Have they told you that?” Riddle looked neither pleased nor displeased, simply curious. 

“Well, no, but I can tell they do, sir. They talk about it all the time, how they would lie down their lives for their Lord. I don’t understand what’s so great about this—this Lord that’s got them so entranced.”

Riddle’s face did not change, but his voice seemed to have dropped a few degrees. “Well, why don’t you ask them about it? Perhaps they could shed light on what they hope to accomplish by joining the Dark Lord.” 

Alphard bit his lip and tried to recall the last time he’d even had a real conversation with Cygnus or Orion. He’d spent a lot of time alone in his room the past summer. 

“Alphard,” Riddle said, softer now. “Your brother wants not only what’s best for you but for all of wizard-kind. You would do well to consider their intentions. I’m not telling you to run off right away and join the Dark Lord, but do try to remember your family values. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?”

 _Disappointment._ That was exactly what he’d been seeing in Cgynus’ expression lately when he did speak to his brother, but he hadn’t been able to pinpoint it. “No, sir.” 

“Of course not. Listen, Alphard, if you have any trouble with your Head Boy duties or you need another letter of recommendation, please come and ask, alright?” He passed him his folded-up piece of parchment. “And please give this to Miss McElroy.”

“Yes, Professor,” Alphard agreed and Riddle gave him a smile that seemed to be missing something. He couldn’t understand why Professor Riddle, who was impartial to even the Slytherins, was being so friendly. He hadn’t seemed to care one way or another about any of them. Even Abraxas’ club in his classroom hardly received any input from him. 

After he’d been dismissed, Alphard pondered Riddle’s words. He would have to talk to Cygnus and Orion eventually, or wait until his suspicions of the Knights’ plans came to light. Were Cygnus and Orion planning to harm a muggleborn? Had they done so already? Lord Voldemort seemed to have more radical ideas than most, but neither his brother nor cousin would deliberately and senselessly hurt someone… No, that was ridiculous… 

A jolt hit him as soon as he reached the common room. Up until twenty minutes ago, he’d completely forgotten Riddle, Cygnus, Walburga, and Orion all grouped together at Hogwarts. As his stomach roared, he remembered something he’d overheard Cygnus say to Orion. _Only we’ve been loyal since our Hogwarts days_. Alphard assumed he’d meant only he and Orion, but it was likely he was referring to the whole group, which included Riddle as well. Riddle hadn’t showed any hint of what he thought of the Dark Lord. Did that mean he was a Knight, too? Both he and Cygnus were urging him in the same direction…

A few feet away, the seventh-year girls were about to pass by on their way to the Great Hall: Beryl Fawley, Aurelia Parkinson, Druella Rosier, and, slightly apart and lost inside her mind, Stateira McElroy. 

“Oi, hey, Stateira,” he called. “I’ve got something for you.”

She paused and turned while the other girls kept walking without her. Alphard briefly wondered why she sat with them during meals, since neither she nor any of them seemed to give a toss about each other. Then again, he’d been feeling the same about his circle of friends lately. 

“Riddle told me to give this to you,” he said, extending his hand.

For a moment, a gleam of triumph appeared in her eyes as she took the note from him. But she did not check it just then, turning to him with a broad grin instead. “Thank you, Alphard.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, perplexed by her reaction, to her back as she walked away.

 

_Dear Miss McElroy,_

_You have forgotten your copy of Advanced Defense Strategies of Magic and Mind. You will need it to write your essay, so I suggest you come to my office and retrieve it before Wednesday._

_Sincerely,  
Professor T.M. Riddle _

Stateira summoned her bag and rifled through it. There it was, _Advanced Defense Strategies of Magic and Mind_. She smiled, holding the letter to her chest. He, too, had apparently enjoyed her birthday “gift.” 

After her rounds, she made her way to the Defense classroom, trying not to rub her eyes. Three things plagued her mind: her impossible NEWT schedule, Hollis’ Sorting, and Lord Voldemort and his Knights. It had been a long day filled with excitement, but that excitement was just beginning for her. 

The classroom was dark, but the light from the open office door provided a dim guide. “Professor Riddle?” she called, feeling the déjà vu. “It’s Stateira McElroy. Coming to get my textbook,” she added, in case he wasn’t alone. 

“Enter,” he replied from the office. 

He was at his desk, reading, but stood once she entered. She wanted to charge at him and press her mouth to his, but she closed the door behind her and stood politely, as if she really had come for a textbook. 

“I can see you’ve gotten a better hold on controlling yourself,” he remarked, smirking. 

“Well, I don’t advise you to come any closer,” she replied teasingly, but frustratingly enough, her face flushed and she turned her gaze away, suddenly shy. Behind him, the stone Pensieve stood empty. 

Riddle glanced over his shoulder at it as he stepped closer. “I’ve learned from my mistakes.” He winked at her. 

The air was thick with something Stateira couldn’t decipher, but then a word Beryl Fawley had used while describing an encounter with a bloke during holiday came to her: _sexual tension_. At this very moment, it was substantial, and Stateira wished they could stop playing cat-and-mouse. Then he heeded her unspoken request and touched his lips to hers. Abandoning pretense, she gripped the front of his robes and kissed him hungrily as his hands pilled her closer—and then he took a step backward, away, leaving cool air in his wake. 

“You know we can’t do this here,” he said softly, pushing her hair behind her ear. 

She slowly collapsed against his chest, letting out a breath against the skin of his neck, wishing she could pull it between her lips. “I know,” she sighed. “It will be terribly hard.” 

“I will still give you lessons,” he said, petting her head. “Perhaps we could start on Legilimency this term.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yes. Have you been practicing Occlumency?”

“No,” she admitted. “I got…a bit distracted.” She smiled at the thought of all those letters written over the summer. “It’s easier to practice at Hogwarts.” 

“Indeed,” Riddle said. “Which is why we’ll be starting this Friday. Every Friday, eight o’clock, for the rest of term.”

“Yes, sir.” Stateira was now smiling at the recollection of Dippet’s office last term, when she’d been genuinely horrified at the prospect of all those detentions. Now she’d gladly spend every night at Hogwarts in Professor Riddle’s office. 

“And, if you excel in your lessons, which I have no doubt that you will,” he continued, running his fingers lightly down her back, setting her nerves on fire and making her press into him with want, “your reward will be granted over winter break.”

Riddle released her, and she knew she had to get going, but there was nothing more she wished for than to stay, to get lost in his gaze…

He indulged her with one last quick kiss before gripping her shoulders and stepping away once more. “Go, Stateira.”

With a wistful sigh, she bade him goodnight and opened the door. 

“Oh, and Miss McElroy,” he said in his firm, teaching voice, grinning playfully. “Do not forget about that essay due on Wednesday.”

“Of course, Professor.” She grinned back, winking, before leaving his office. 

_Goodness, how I’d missed Hogwarts_ , she thought happily as she strode down the corridor. 

~**~ ~**~

Despite the growing tension between purebloods and muggleborns, the days were passing along rather uneventfully at Hogwarts. Like Stateira, Edwina was thrilled to be back at school. Her NEWT classes were rigorous and challenging, but Edwina was confident that she’d do well enough to get into Auror Training. During previous years, that had only been a dream, but as the possibility grew tangible, so did her excitement. 

Only two other upper-year Ravenclaws shared her ambition: Achilles and Antonia Longbottom. Achilles had his own group of blokes and Antonia was a sixth-year, so they didn’t have classes with her at all. However, Antonia sat next to Edwina during meals, which accumulated into a lot of time. Edwina was too busy with schoolwork and Head Girl duties to make other friends, so she found herself talking with Antonia more and more frequently. 

“The Ministry needs Aurors now more than ever with this new Dark Leader around,” Antonia said one Saturday in late October as they walked around the Black Lake. Tension was etched in her face. “Without Dumbledore, I don’t know who can stop him. They say he’s as powerful and brilliant as Dumbledore had been. I—I just…I’m so scared, you know?”

Edwina wondered vaguely if Dumbledore had been directly involved in this Dark wizard’s life, too. Despite her trying to force them out, Skeeter’s words were still in her mind, but knowing how much Antonia revered him, she kept quiet. Unfortunately, Antonia had started to cry. 

“There, there,” Edwina said, rubbing the top of the younger girl’s hand. “It’ll be alright, Antonia. We’re not in danger; we’re half-bloods.”

Antonia jerked her head up and glared. Edwina’s cheeks tinged as she looked away, feeling foolish. Comforting the distraught was not something she’d ever been skilled at, even with Callista. 

If this exchange had occurred the previous year, Antonia would have snapped a retort, but she, too, had gone through something over the summer that lit her from within. Now she barely paid attention to anything at Hogwarts besides classes, slowly becoming absorbed with tracking the Knights’ activities with news articles. 

“I’ve got to become an Auror,” Antonia said with rigor. “I can’t stand by and do nothing!” She stood up and stalked back into the castle without another word to Edwina. 

Having been through this a couple of times over the past couple of months, Edwina vaguely wondered if Antonia was upset with her. But sure enough, there she was at her usual spot at supper, ready to talk Edwina’s ear off again. Edwina had to begrudgingly admire Antonia; the girl had more desire to become an Auror than Edwina and Achilles put together. 

Aside from Antonia, Edwina’s interactions with other students were limited to scolding, giving detentions, and prefect-running. The last one was the only way Edwina had time to speak to Stateira McElroy. 

They both shared Defense, of course, but their intense workload and NEWT training left little time to progress a conversation. Last year, the two girls had met in the library from time to time on Friday nights to study, but then Stateira had gotten all of those detentions and the ritual was lost. Edwina had gone to the library a couple of Fridays this term, but the girl had not been there. 

Whatever happened to the girl over the summer, Edwina observed, had affected her for the better. Stateira, thin and tall, now wore makeup and perfectly-set curls every day. Her almost smug confidence had earned some attention from some of the Slytherin and Ravenclaw boys, and even Ignatius Prewett, her once-enemy of Gryffindor, eyed her up from time to time. Her fancy with Professor Riddle wasn’t as apparent, as she was more concentrated on mastering the spells whether he was watching or not. 

Sometimes Edwina contemplated setting up a time to meet with Stateira to talk over tea, but she seemed to be growing distant. Edwina suspected it was because she was sitting by Antonia, but how could she still be fussed over their falling out? Had Antonia said something to her? No, Edwina was sure she would’ve heard about it. Stateira was simply preoccupied with something, and whether that something was Riddle or not, well, Edwina was staying out of it. 

About a week later, Edwina took her seat next to Antonia, ready to tuck into supper after never-ending studies. 

“Hello, Edwina,” Antonia greeted. “I’ve got to say, Riddle’s class is rather intense. It’s quite a good thing, though. He’s right about the power of negativity and all that.”

Edwina nodded. “You know, you should ask him for a Restricted slip and check out this book. It’s called _Harnessing_ —"

“Oi, Hollis!” Antonia called suddenly, looking over Edwina’s shoulder. “Come take a seat!”

The startled boy plopped down next to Edwina, who was equally nonplussed. She hadn’t known Antonia had ever spoken to Hollis, but she was a prefect, after all. 

“How are you doing?” Antonia asked him kindly. “How are classes going?” 

“Well, I suppose,” Hollis replied hesitantly. 

“How about flying lessons?” 

The boy’s dark eyes lit up. “They’re brilliant! I’d never been on a broom, see, growing up in London and all. O’Reilly says I should try out for the Quidditch team next year!”

Edwina could tell by his delivery that he’d been bursting to announce that to someone. She wondered briefly if the boy had anyone to talk to on a regular basis. 

“That’s an excellent idea, Hollis,” Antonia was saying, and Edwina found herself nodding along. “Our team could use some new talent.”

Hollis nodded eagerly, pushing his arm through the strap of his bag. “I’ll definitely try out. Well, I’ve got to go to Charms. Goodbye, Antonia, goodbye, Edwina.”

As he vanished into the corridor, Edwina turned to Antonia. “I didn’t realize you were friendly with Hollis McElroy. I think it’s a good thing.”

“It certainly is,” Antonia agreed firmly. “The poor bloke’s been left on his own. The other day I caught those two devil first-years, Haines and Carren, hassling him about his father and brother. I had to deduct quite a few house points.”

“About his father and brother?” Edwina echoed as they finished up their supper and started in on their rice pudding. 

“Yes, specifically his brother. Telling him Alexander was touched in the head, that his family’s rotten.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Edwina mumbled with a surge of pity for the boy. “They’re getting crueler and crueler these days.”

“Yes, well, look at the atmosphere lately. Everyone’s turning on each other left and right.”

Edwina was deep in thought, her pudding sitting abandoned on the table. “Isn’t that similar to what Bruin Weasley said to Stateira?” 

“Yes, but that reaction was overboard,” replied Antonia, wrinkling her nose. “We kind of want to avoid that with Hollis, don’t we? Anyway, Stateira can handle herself by now, Hollis may not. Not like she seems to give a toss about him,” she added scornfully. 

Edwina couldn’t disagree there. As if to reinforce Antonia’s point, Stateira rose from the Slytherin table and left without a glance toward the Ravenclaws. 

“She doesn’t care about anything other than Professor Riddle,” Antonia went on in a low voice. “I mean, he is quite handsome and charming, I’ll give her that. But she needs to face the fact that he is unlikely to take a student to bed.”

“Don’t you think she might admire him because of his talent?” Edwina asked gently, knowing she was treading on thin ice. “I know I certainly do.”

“I don’t know,” Antonia conceded. “Either way, she’s not giving her brother a lick of concern, and I just think the kid rather needs it right now. He seems well-adjusted enough, though most do at 11.” 

“You’re right, I suppose,” Edwina replied as they gathered their things and left the Great Hall. “Well, I don’t see any harm in getting acquainted with Hollis.”

Later, in Defense, Edwina vowed to speak to Stateira, even if only for a moment about something inane. That plan was foiled when she remembered that they had a quiz at the end of the lesson, which, luckily, she’d studied for the previous night. 

Evidently Stateira had also been prepared, for she finished before Edwina, rolling up her parchment and sitting quietly. 

Edwina crouched over their shared table, her head tilted to the side as she answered an open-ended question: _What is the proper stance for casting a Repelling Charm?_ She pictured herself in her mind as she tried to recall it. She knew she’d read it the day before, but she could not remember if her wand arm had to be raised 60 or 80 degrees. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Edwina could see Stateira pressing her knuckle to her lips and staring at the professor’s desk. Her face was filled with such want, such yearning, unlike any Edwina had ever seen before. She could not see if Riddle was seated at his desk or if he was staring back unless she lifted her head. 

Edwina blinked and Stateira had snapped out of it and looked down at her quiz, reviewing her answers. _Mind your own business_ , a voice in her head chided. _Get back to work, Auror. The answer is 80 degrees from body, by the way._

Since it was the night before Halloween, Hogwarts regained its fun, festive atmosphere as students of all years looked forward to the Halloween Feast and an extra day off from classes. The NEWT students in particular were enthused about the latter, while the first-years excitedly anticipated the former. 

There was much animated chatter in the Great Hall the next morning as the Daily Prophet came. Then, as people read the top news story, an unnatural hush fell over the Hall, similar to the two Edwina had experienced before: in her third year, when Dumbledore’s murder was announced, and her fifth, when Alexander McElroy was convicted. 

ANOTHER MUGGLE FAMILY TRAGEDY read the headline of 1st October, 1948 with a picture of a smiling, round-faced man in a crisp blue blazer and tie. 

_Stewart Bones, aged 41, was found dead in his Newcastle home last night due to heart failure…suspected poison from a bottle of brandy sent to his real estate office…_

Many students were looking in horror at the Hufflepuff table where Florence Bones usually sat, but she was not there. She had been pulled out of her dormitory late the previous night and escorted to Dippet’s office, from which she was not seen again. A few Hufflepuff girls were crying as a ripple of shock and newly-refreshed fear spread through the Great Hall. Only the Slytherins, who either looked smug or indifferent, were unaffected. 

“You _see_ ,” Antonia hissed, jabbing her finger at the newspaper. “This is only going to get worse.” Next to her sat Hollis, looking like he’d just swallowed a Galleon whole. 

Antonia folded up the paper and stood up in grim determination. “Now is the time to act!” She left Hollis and Edwina in her wake, looking at each other and wondering how on Earth they were supposed to act. 

 

“The Knights strike again!” Abraxas declared triumphantly, smacking the Daily Prophet on the table. 

He, Alphard, Icarus, and Sequitur were gathered in the Defense classroom after the Feast, which had been a thoroughly morose and subdued affair after news of Bones’ death. 

“The Dark Lord shall be immensely proud of that particular Knight,” Abraxas continued. “Don’t you reckon, sir?”

Riddle, seated at his desk, graded papers and ignored him. 

“I mean, that is quite a level of _devotion_ he’s reached…”

Alphard was feeling slightly ill listening to Abraxas’ rambling. It was one thing to loathe a group of people, since in pureblood culture, “muggleborn” could be viewed as general, abstract. But to relish in the misfortune of a fellow Hogwarts student they’d had classes for nearly seven years with? Alphard was not amused in the slightest. 

Icarus didn’t look too amused, either, resting his chin on his hand with a despondent glaze over his blue eyes. “What’s with you, Yaxley?” Abraxas demanded. 

The other boy sighed. “My mum keeps hassling me about finding a bride.”

At that, the mood of everyone besides Sequitur and Riddle soured; it was common practice for Sacred 28 descendants to marry soon after Hogwarts. Irma had already dropped a few hints to Alphard that he was expected to find a suitable lady by spring.

“I actually was quite keen on Rosier before Cygnus Black claimed her,” Abraxas groaned. “Now I’m going to be stuck with Parkinson, I just know it.”

“I thought you fancied McElroy?” Alphard asked. 

“I do, but she’s not…very accustomed to the Sacred 28 lifestyle.”

“She’s skint, you mean,” Icarus piped up. 

“No, I don’t care if she hasn’t got money. I’ve got enough of that. I just don’t exactly see her as a doting wife, you know?”

“You’re lucky you’ve even a choice,” Icarus grumbled. “My parents won’t even let me consider anyone with a parent outside the 28. Same with you, right, Alphard?”

Alphard nodded miserably. A younger-year would be alright, except he didn’t know a single one well enough to choose within six months. 

“Yes, well, my parents know the repercussions of too much inbreeding,” Abraxas sneered. “They’re not about to marry me off with my cousin.”

Alphard wasn’t sure if that was a direct jab at him or not, since Orion and Walburga had just gotten married the previous summer. He had started to notice Abraxas’ cruelty more and more lately, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, much of it was directed toward Alphard himself. 

“Let’s change the subject,” said Sequitur, who did not have to consider his future wife’s blood status or family history. 

“Professor, when will you take a wife?” Abraxas asked Riddle, but Riddle continued to ignore him. “Fine,” he pouted. “I’ll talk about my favorite topic.”

“Which is…?”

“The Dark Lord, of course. How do you think he’ll reward the Knights once all the mudbloods are gone?”

Sequitur rolled his eyes, irritated. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” 

“Alright, Malfoy, just shut up and tell us how you did it, will you?” Icarus burst out irritably. 

Riddle picked up his head, a ghost of a smirk on his face, and looked back down at his papers. 

“Did what, Yaxley?” 

“You know what, Malfoy. You completed your task rather quickly.”

“What task?” Alphard asked, but no one paid him any attention. Icarus and Sequitur were staring avidly at Abraxas, waiting for his response. 

“Bloodroot Potion,” he said quietly without his usual pompous tone. “It takes less than 48 hours.”

It took every single ounce of self-control Alphard possessed to not gasp out loud as it clicked into place. Abraxas had been thinking of becoming a Knight, and it was Abraxas who’d poisoned Florence Bones’ father, presumably under the Dark Lord’s instruction. Alphard glared at Riddle, silently imploring him to intervene, but he continued with his grading as if he hadn’t heard anything. _Had_ he heard anything? 

“Black, you alright, mate?” Abraxas was needling him again, sensing his discomfort. Everyone, including Riddle, stared at him. 

Alphard managed a weak smile. “Yes, of course, Abraxas. I simply don’t think it’s wise to discuss it here.”

“It’s alright; Professor Riddle won’t grass on us, right, sir?” Icarus asked. 

“I haven’t a clue what you lot are talking about,” Riddle replied dismissively, dipping his quill into the inkpot in front of him. 

This almost confirmed Alphard’s theory—Riddle was a Knight. Why else would he act so blasé about a death so close to Hogwarts? 

“Alphard, you forget that I was here at Hogwarts in ’43 when that girl died. I was the one who caught that Hagrid and his vicious spider.”

At this, oddly, Abraxas, Icarus, and Sequitur exchanged gleeful looks. Alphard was so caught up in trying to recall details of his first year, he’d nearly missed the fact that Riddle seemed to be reading his mind. 

“My dad said that the girl was killed by a monster in the Chamber of Secrets,” Abraxas was saying, “which meant the heir of Slytherin was at Hogwarts in ’43.”

“Cygnus said something along those lines, too,” Alphard said, remembering suddenly. 

“Wouldn’t it be wicked if the Dark Lord was the heir of Slytherin?” Icarus wondered out loud. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, fool; they still haven’t proved it about any heir, right, Professor?” 

“Correct,” Riddle said. “Now you lot had best get out of my office. It’s well after curfew.”

Alphard was the first one out of his seat, not wanting to get caught alone with Riddle. Behind him, Icarus was grumbling, “Well, it’s better than the Prophet’s theory that the Dark Lord is _Grindelwald_.” 

“Weren’t they just saying that they suspect Grindelwald is trapped in Nurmengard?”

“Yes, except they’ll never find Nurmengard, since the Ministry is full of incompetent morons,” Abraxas drawled. “So they’ve got to come up with something to tell the public other than that all the mudbloods are doomed.”

Alphard excused himself to meet up with the prefects and collect their reports. On the way to one of the second-floor corridors, the typical meeting spot, he ruminated over what just happened. Abraxas had killed Bones’ father, Riddle was probably a Knight, Grindelwald was in Nurmengard… So who on Earth was Lord Voldemort? He supposed the Dark Lord’s objective was to remain anonymous and move in secrecy, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was on the tip of his tongue. Not a word, but a realization…but what?

 _The Chamber of Secrets, the heir of Slytherin…_ something about the legend—if it was a legend—was nagging at him. What had Cygnus said? Only a direct descendant could open the Chamber…designed to purge Hogwarts of unworthy students…

What had Riddle brought it up for, anyway? An answer to why death didn’t faze him…in response to Alphard’s unanswered question. Could Riddle read minds or was Alphard dreadful at keeping his thoughts from his face? He suspected the latter, judging by Abraxas’ observation. 

_The heir of Slytherin…direct descendant…_ Was that what was bothering him? Alphard wasn’t entirely sure, but it would be as good of a place to start as any. 

He stopped, turned around, and headed to the library. It would be closing any minute, but he’d be able to find _The Pureblood Directory_ easily. The prefects could hang onto their reports for another night. 

~**~ ~**~

Finally the last night of term was upon them. Edwina was quite looking forward to lounging around the castle, relaxing, and catching up on some good books. Maybe she’d try to reconnect with Stateira if Stateira was indeed staying at Hogwarts. Edwina made a mental note to ask her in Defense before their exam. 

As she was walking from her last Charms class, mulling over her exam, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to see Hollis McElroy standing alone, books in hand. 

“Erm, Edwina? Antonia Longbottom asked me to bring you to Professor Merrythought’s classroom.” 

Bewildered, Edwina took the smaller boy’s arm and walked alongside him down the corridors and down two flights of stairs. They were momentarily held up when she had to confiscate a couple of Fizzing Whizbees from a group of smart-mouthed younger-years. Hollis stood by patiently as Edwina went on a Gryffindor point-deduction spree. Once the boys kept their gobs sufficiently shut, the pair moved along. 

In Merrythought’s room there were several students of various ages and Houses: Antonia and Achilles Longbottom, Ignatius Prewett, Bruin Weasley, a skinny, black-haired Gryffindor boy named Fleamont Potter, and a tall, confident first-year named Minerva McGonagall, also of Gryffindor. 

“Edwina! Hollis!” Antonia called from the front of the classroom, waving them over. “Come! Have a seat.” She gestured to one of the tables. Professor Merrythought sat behind her desk, quietly observing. 

Edwina and Hollis each took a seat. “Alright, it looks like we’ve got everyone,” Antonia said, clapping her hands once together. “Hopefully the news will spread and next time there will be more of us.”

As everyone stared, she gave Merrythought a look with a shadow of reluctance. The professor nodded encouragingly, and Antonia turned back to the students. 

“Good evening, everyone. I gathered you all here today because I’ve spoken to each of you, and it seems as though we’ve all got a bit of concern about the, erm, current events…

“Florence Bones is a good friend of mine, and I don’t know if I’m going to see her again. I’m torn down the middle: on one hand, I want all of my friends, regardless of blood status, to finish Hogwarts with me. On the other, I want them to be safe, and I don’t think Wizarding Britain is safe for them right now.”

Everyone listened and watched her as her face grew slightly pink and her eyes glistened for a moment. Again she turned to Merrythought, who said softly, “Go on, dear.” 

“We should all stand in solidarity with muggleborns to show that they are indeed welcome in wizarding society,” Antonia said in a stronger voice. “I had this idea that all of us could meet once a week and sort of, discuss things, such as any fears or ideas you may have. Professor Merrythought has given her permission for us to use this classroom.”

No one spoke for a moment, but Bruin Weasley, Fleamont Potter, and Minerva McGonagall were nodding. 

“I have also agreed to bring more up-to-date information from the Ministry about what’s happening out there,” Merrythought spoke up. “I am close to one of the senior Aurors. I can also occasionally teach a few extracurricular defense spells.”

“That sounds brilliant!” Minerva said exuberantly. “I want in.”

“As do I,” said Ignatius Prewett. “I reckon we should even take it a step further and be on the lookout for anything suspicious here at Hogwarts. Two of the muggle deaths have been closely related to a current student.”

“Hear, hear,” Bruin Weasley replied. “I, for one, think a few of those Slytherins are getting ready to join that ‘Dark Lord.’ You can’t trust any of those snakes.”

“That’s not fair,” Achilles told him. “They’re not _all_ bad. Alphard Black’s alright, wouldn’t you say, Ignatius?” 

Ignatius nodded. “Yes, he’s a decent bloke. No, I don’t reckon all Slytherins are bad, but you can’t deny a few of them are up to no good. Abraxas Malfoy, for one. And that dreadful Yaxley—"

“Enough!” Achilles barked, startling everyone except Merrythought. “My sister isn’t trying to start a hate group. Let’s leave that for the Knights of Walpurgis, shall we?” 

There were murmurs and nods of agreement throughout the room. Next to Edwina, Hollis leaned forward and let out a breath. 

“Alright, since we’re all in favor of the group, let’s pick out a name and time to meet,” Antonia said.

“How about the _Horses_ of Walpurgis?” Bruin suggested, inciting a few chuckles. 

“Or the Horses of Justice!” Minerva cried. 

“Too dramatic,” Achilles said, earning him a surprisingly fierce glare from an 11-year-old girl. 

“Well, we are essentially following Dumbledore,” Antonia said thoughtfully. “That’s how I thought of this group—to try and carry Dumbledore’s legacy…”

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Hollis said, his first sound since speaking to Edwina in the corridor. Not everyone heard him, so with uncharacteristic boldness, he stood up and joined Antonia at the front of the room, near Merrythought’s desk. 

“Grindelwald’s followers were called the Magic Army,” he said after everyone had fallen silent and given him their full attention. “They wanted to carry out his vision, and we want to carry out Dumbledore’s, do we not? I say Dumbledore’s Army.” 

“I like it,” said Merrythought, shooting Hollis a look of approval that the boy noticeably basked in. Antonia watched him, smiling fondly. 

“We can call it DA for short, so no one knows what we’re referring to,” Minerva suggested. 

“All in favor of Dumbledore’s Army?” 

Edwina raised her hand along with everyone else. Achilles produced blank parchment and a quill for everyone to sign. 

_DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY  
Founded 19 December 1948 _

_Achilles Longbottom_  
_Ignatius Prewett_  
_Bruin Weasley_  
_Antonia Longbottom_  
_Fleamont Potter_  
_Minerva McGonagall_  
_Edwina Boot_  
_Hollis McElroy_

Then, under Hollis’ name, in elegant, well-controlled script: 

_Galatea Merrythought_

Edwina felt like she was seeing Professor Merrythought for the first time since before Dumbledore’s death. While still put-together, almost regal, Galatea Merrythought had more worry lines in her face and purple shadows under her grey-green eyes. Albus Dumbledore had been a confidante to her, an old friend.

“I should hope that I wouldn’t have to place some kind of spell on this list,” Antonia said, rolling it up and tucking it into her robe. “But it goes without saying that we all should be careful about to whom you speak of this group. Not everyone has, erm, positive associations with Dumbledore and the non-magical community.”

“Hear, hear,” said Ignatius. 

“Now: meeting time. I suppose during the week is best—"

“We’ve got Quidditch practice Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Bruin interrupted. 

“And Ravenclaw’s practice is Mondays and Wednesdays,” Achilles added. 

“Isn’t Quidditch season over?” Antonia snapped. 

“Yes, but this is going to be an ongoing thing, yes? Quidditch starts back up in March.”

“Alright, over the weekend, then?” 

“Erm, actually,” Fleamont piped up sheepishly. “I’ve got detention with Dunst on Saturdays for the whole month of January.”

“What on Earth did you do?” Minerva asked curiously. 

“I set his entire desk with all of our exams on fire…it was an accident,” he added hurriedly at the look on Merrythought’s face while Ignatius, Bruin, and Achilles howled with laughter. 

“Brilliant work, mate!”

“Did you happen to see if he had the NEWT class’s exams there?” 

Antonia rubbed her temples in exasperation. “Alright, Saturdays are no good, then…”

“Friday nights, eight o’clock.”

Edwina’s voice was hoarse; like Hollis, she had stayed mostly silent thus far. 

Taking advantage of the ensuing moment of silence, Merrythought said, “That works well with me; how about everyone else?” 

Everyone agreed and the meeting was concluded. For all of her enthusiasm over setting it up, Antonia dashed out rather fast, but Bruin had been eyeing her up, so Edwina supposed she wanted to avoid him. 

She caught up with the younger girl in the common room. “Oi, Antonia, listen…great idea. Really.”

Antonia grinned, pleased. “I’m glad you think so, Edwina. You and Hollis will be great to have.”

“Thank you,” Edwina said, flattered. Antonia really had grown over the summer. “I’ll try to come to all of the meetings, but since I’m Head Girl, I’ve got to make sure the prefects stay in line…”

“I understand.” Antonia gave her another warm smile. “Well, I’d better get to packing. Good night!”

“Good night.”

Not having to pack since she wasn’t going anywhere, Edwina decided to patrol the corridors to ensure no one was sneaking about. Just as she’d descended the spiral staircase, she bumped into Hollis, on his own and staring off into the distance. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Edwina,” he said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention.”

“It’s quite alright, Hollis,” she assured him. 

“Is Antonia up there? I want to ask her something about the…you know.” 

“Actually, she went to pack,” Edwina told him.

“Oh!” he replied, his dark eyes widening. “I should get started on my packing as well!” 

“Where are you going?” she blurted; she had assumed that he would be staying at Hogwarts, like his sister. 

He paused before mumbling, “My dad’s.”

“Oh,” Edwina said, recovering quickly but still burning with embarrassment. “Well, I hope you have fun.”

“I will.” Hollis nodded and she could tell it was genuine, that he enjoyed going to his father’s. He waved goodnight, climbed up the stairs, and the eagle began the riddle. 

_How must it feel to be so separated from your own sister?_ Edwina wondered. She was much closer to Callista than Hollis to Stateira, and Callista wasn’t even at Hogwarts yet. She would be staying with their aunt and uncle for Christmas. It was a good thing that Hollis, too, had a family member to go to. 

 

Tonight was Stateira's and Professor Riddle’s final meeting of autumn term. Usually they started at eight, but she’d had to drag two third-years who’d decided it would be a grand idea to have one last duel in the middle of the common room to Riddle’s office. By the time he’d gotten their punishments sorted, it was almost nine, and Stateira had to escort them to the common room. 

Now half-past nine, she wasn’t sure if Riddle would have any time for her, but she wouldn’t be able to bear it if he went away for the break and she hadn’t said goodbye. 

_You’re pathetic, lass._

_Oh, shut it_ , came an answer in her typical voice. _I’m not going to marry the bloke._

Again the lights were off in the classroom, but there was a warm glow from inside the office. As usual, she called, “Professor Riddle? It’s Stateira McElroy.”

“Enter.”

However, instead of at his place behind his desk, he was standing in front of it, waiting for her. He held out his arms and she ran into them, throwing her own around his neck. “Oh, Professor,” she sighed. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“You must, darling,” Riddle said softly, kissing her forehead. 

“I know.” Forcing herself to break away from him, she looked into his eyes. “I don’t know if you will stay or not.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be staying,” he told her. “I’ve got a few things to take care of. But don’t worry, darling,” he added at the start of a pout. “I will arrange a time we can meet.”

She smiled, appeased at last. “I would love that, Professor.” Now she was in lesson-mode, knowing that hanging all over Riddle wasn’t going to get her anywhere. “I’m not sure if it’s too late for a lesson or not, but if so, maybe you can answer a question.”

“Go on,” he said, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. 

Meandering over to the Pensieve even though she knew it was empty, Stateira said, “Abraxas Malfoy and Icarus Yaxley say that the Dark Lord’s mission is to purge the wizarding world of all muggles and mudbloods…”

She ran her hand over the stone basin, pressing her fingertips lightly into the carved runes. “And you, erm, are not fond of them either, sir, so does that mean you support Lord Voldemort?” She knew the answer; she wanted him to say it. 

“Of course I do,” he said serenely. “I am Lord Voldemort.”

Every muscle in Stateira’s body froze as her eyes widened, for that was not the answer she was expecting. “Did—you’re—"

“The Dark Lord, yes.”

She finally forced herself to turn around and saw an amused smirk on Riddle’s face. He kept his eyes on her, and she realized her mouth was gaping open in shock. Closing it and swallowing hard, she reigned in the chaos her mind had been plunged into, trying to think properly. He hated muggles, he killed his father, he had this “club” with aspiring Knights, he taught them the Dark Arts…

“That does rather make sense,” Stateira said slowly. “Now that I’ve thought on it.”

“Desire is such a distraction, isn’t it?” he teased. “Even such an intelligent girl falls into a trap.”

“Is that what I’ve fallen into?” She raised her eyebrows playfully, daringly. “I would argue that I haven’t fallen anywhere, Professor. I’ve only risen, thanks to you.”

Riddle was no longer smiling but surveying her, his head cocked to the side. “You are not afraid?” 

“Should I be?” she asked innocently, wondering if she was, in fact, dancing with death. 

He shrugged. “As of now, you’ve no reason to be.”

“That settles it, then.” As Stateira smiled, the information finally processed through her mind. She was standing in the office of _the Dark Lord_. She hadn’t a clue if she was afraid or of anything she felt. Something was rushing through her veins, but she couldn’t discern whether it was fear or excitement. They are but the same thing, she recalled someone saying—maybe Edwina? Then she remembered that she was at Hogwarts, too late to be out of bed even for a prefect. 

“I—I’ve got to go, Professor,” she stuttered, torn on planting a kiss on his lips or bolting out. “Goodnight.” She opened the office door and strode quickly through the classroom. 

“Hogsmeade, New Year’s Eve, nine o’clock,” Riddle replied. He was a black figure in the doorway, the lamplight surrounding him. “I will pick you up at the Three Broomsticks.” 

“I’ll be there, sir.” 

As she crept down the hall, Stateira heard his voice playing over and over again as her stomach raged and an intense heat took over the spot between her legs. 

_I am Lord Voldemort, I am Lord Voldemort…_

~**~ ~**~


	7. Winter 1948-1949

Alphard had reached a dead end. He’d traced every single Sacred 28 family from the present all the way to Salazar, and he could not find a direct descendent that had been at Hogwarts in 1943, when the Chamber had supposedly opened. The family with the least deviation from the tree, Gaunt, hadn’t produced an heir since 1907. If Morfin and Merope Gaunt had gone to Hogwarts, the Chamber would have been opened sometime between 1918 and 1924, which it couldn’t have, because Alphard’s father, Pollux would have known of it. 

He slammed _The Pureblood Directory_ shut in frustration. The Chamber of Secrets was a myth, then. Even if he had found the heir of Slytherin, what would that have proven? It was widely known that a few pureblood families despised muggles. If Lord Voldemort was British, he had probably gone to Hogwarts, right? Alphard sighed and rubbed his eyes. He felt like his mind was travelling in circles. 

There was another option that Alphard had considered but kept dismissing: asking Cygnus or Orion. Since they were Knights-in-training, it was possible that they knew his identity…but would thy tell Alphard, who’d shown no interest thus far? 

“CYGNUS-ORION-ALPHARD!” Walburga shouted from downstairs. Alphard took a breath, put the book in his desk, and headed to the dining hall. 

The House of Black was hosting a holiday party, and they had invited prominent Sacred 28 families, such as Malfoy, Rosier, Lestrange, and Avery. This was useful because there was a possibility of learning new information. This was not good because Cygnus, who was courting Druella Rosier, might be too distracted to speak with Alphard. 

Unfortunately, the talk of the table was strictly political and Ministry-related. One of the Lestranges kept saying that there was about to be great changes and improvements, but no one would explicitly say what they were. 

All the young men besides Alphard were drinking firewhiskey under their parents’ noses: Cygnus, Orion, Abraxas, Felix Lestrange, and James Avery. Edward Rosier was too young to drink, and his sister, Druella, grew increasingly cross as the supper progressed. ‘

Although he felt sorry for Druella having to put up with a drunk Cygnus—he could be a bit of a pig—Alphard hoped they’d continue to drink. Alcohol loosened the tongue, and his brother’s and cousin’s had been tightly held lately. 

Finally the boys excused themselves to speak in Cygnus’ room. Alphard followed, but he could sense some resentment toward him from the older boys. Avery and Lestrange were Cygnus’ mates, and they only tolerated Orion and Alphard because of him. His friendship with Abraxas used to hold weight, but now they’d grown apart, and Alphard had gravitated toward Ignatius Prewett by sitting next to him in Defense. Prewett was a pureblood, but his Gryffindor traits were frowned upon by other Slytherins. 

“How is your task going, Abraxas?” Lestrange asked, smirking. If there was anyone more arrogant and snide than Abraxas, it was him. “Think you’ll complete it within the next 10 years?”

“It’s actually completed, Felix,” Abraxas replied coolly. “The name Stewart Bones doesn’t ring a bell?” 

“Bullocks,” Lestrange said in a low voice, but his dark eyes had widened slightly. 

“Not bullocks. How’s yours coming along, Cygnus?”

“Fine, fine…” 

Alphard stared at his brother. Did he have to kill a muggle, too? And Orion? No, Orion wouldn’t…but how else does one become a Knight?

“Orion, what’s got you so glum, mate?” Lestrange turned on him. 

Orion merely shook his head, leaning a cheek on his palm and staring off. 

“I know how you’re feeling, cousin,” Cygnus sneered. “Not exactly a picnic living with Walburga, yeah?” 

Orion either ignored him or didn’t hear him. Alphard saw Lestrange and Avery exchange looks. “Mate, you should tell your elf to get some firewiskey up here,” Avery said to Cygnus. 

“Are you mental? We can’t get more pissed right now. Have you ever _seen_ my mum when she wigs out?” 

“Abraxas, you pick a girl yet, or are you stuck with Parkinson?” asked Lestrange, apparently determined to keep the attention on himself at all times.

“Oh, please let’s change the subject,” Abraxas groaned. 

“What about you, Alphard? Don’t tell me you’re going to pick a Gryffindor lover, too?”

“Maybe Prewett is his lover,” Avery cracked. 

Alphard didn’t know how to respond, but luckily, Abraxas stepped in. “Take whomever, but I’ll have you know I’m still considering McElroy, so not her.”

To Alphard’s complete surprise, Lestrange and Avery both shot Abraxas quizzical looks. “McElroy?” Lestrange repeated.

“Yes, Stateira McElroy, the seventh-year. Why?” 

“I thought she—never mind,” Lestrange said, his eyebrows still joined. 

“Listen, if you’re going to start in on her family, just keep it shut. She’s a clever and ambitious witch.”

“So we’ve heard,” Avery said dismissively. “I wish you a rather lot of luck with her, because you’ll need it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before Avery could answer, the door burst open and an irate Walburga stomped in, foaming at the mouth. 

“Didn’t you idiot lot hear me calling for dessert?” she snapped. “You think it’s easy traipsing up and down these blasted stairs like a house-elf in these bloody shoes? ORION!” 

Her new husband jolted out of his trance and cowered, ducking slightly behind Cygnus. 

“If you think for a second I’ll be taking your drunk arse to my bed tonight, you are surely mistaken!”

“My, don’t you look dashing, Walburga,” Lestrange said in a low, seductive voice. “Perhaps I shall replace Orion in your bed tonight? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“I’d rather eat a batch of baked doxy dung than take you anywhere near my bed, Felix,” she replied, undaunted. “Now I suggest you lot get your arses to the dining hall because when Irma starts yelling, the party is finished.”

If Alphard had known dessert would be such a fiasco, he would’ve claimed a headache or digestive problems. Before his bottom touched the chair, Cassius Malfoy was asking him if he had a witch in mind. 

“Of course not,” Irma piped up. “He is too involved with his mates at Hogwarts to think about any courtship.”

“Oh? Well, Alphard, next to every successful wizard is a devoted witch. How about Lucretia? She hasn’t got a suitor yet, which is quite odd if I may say so myself.”

“No.” The word came out of Alphard’s mouth before it even crossed his mind. Everyone fell silent and stared at him. “I’m not marrying my own cousin. I’ve got plenty of time to find a wife.” As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough having his older sister married to his cousin.

“How dare you talk back, Alphard,” Pollux said in a dangerous voice. “Apologize this instant.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Alphard muttered to Cassius Malfoy. 

“Louder!”

“It’s alright, Pollux—" Irma started.

“Louder, boy!”

Alphard opened his mouth, but his father had a few glasses of firewhiskey, which made him even more belligerent than usual. “Leave us, Alphard,” he growled. 

“Pollux—"

“OUT!”

Miserably, Alphard left the table and slunk out of the room. As grateful as he was to be out of there, he knew he’d pay for it later after everyone had gone home. 

He hadn’t an idea whom to take as a wife. He’d once fancied Antonia Longbottom of Ravenclaw, but he knew the House of Black would consider her worse than none at all. _What is the bloody rush anyway? I’m barely 18._

A few minutes later, a light knock came from his door. 

“Enter,” he called dully, lying face-down on his bed. 

The person closed the door behind him, and Alphard felt the side of his bed collapse a little bit. “Alphard, brother…”

Cygnus had taken a seat beside him. “Don’t fuss over this wife-rubbish. They gave me the same lecture when I was your age.”

Alphard managed a small smile at Cygnus’ old habit of starting his advice with “when I was your age…” as if he wasn’t a mere two years older. 

“Cygnus…what does it take to become a Knight?” 

His brother did a double-take, blinking rapidly. “You want to follow the Dark Lord?” 

“Well, I’m not sure yet. I don’t know much about him. Does anyone know who he actually is?” 

“Of course they do,” Cygnus replied. “But who he is doesn’t matter; it’s his ideas that do. He plans to make Wizarding Britain almost a magical utopia, similar to how it was long ago even before Grindelwald took over Europe. Although I don’t know how he knows what that’s like, as Grindelwald came back to Europe in the 20s, around the time we were born, but don’t repeat that, will you, brother? Best not to question the Dark Lord’s claims… We must trust in him…”

Alphard wasn’t listening, stuck on something Cygnus had just said. _In the 20s, around the time we were born._ So the Dark Lord was rather young, much younger than Alphard would have ever guessed. And if Cygnus more or less knew his age… “Cygnus, did the Dark Lord attend Hogwarts?”

“Yes, of course. He was an—he hadn’t anyone at home to teach him. He probably could’ve taught himself, he’s that brilliant, but the Ministry wouldn’t have allowed that.” 

“So you went to Hogwarts with him?” 

Cygnus beamed with pride. “I was his first follower. Well, probably Lestrange was, but we had all started following him around the same time. Then he went abroad and didn’t announce his return right away so I knew not it was the same man.”

“CYGNUS!” a woman’s screech came from downstairs. 

“Coming,” he called back. Winking at Alphard, he stood up, swaying slightly. “Think about it, brother, and come to me when you’re ready to join. I’ll be waiting.”

That was why Alphard had been so hung up on the Chamber of Secrets. In 1943, every Knight and the Dark Lord had been at Hogwarts… Mentally, he recited every Knight from the top of his head: Abraxas, Icarus, Sequitur… but they’d only been third-years. Orion was also too young. Then there were the “original” Knights: Mulciber, Avery, Lestrange, and presumably, Riddle. Before Knights there were those in Grindelwald’s Army, but the only Brit he knew of in that was Alexander McElroy, who’d been a few years older than Cygnus. Could he be—? No, he was Kissed…impossible…

Walburga was calling for him, but Alphard was too deep in thought to respond. He had to figure this out; he was so _close_ … Who was the odd one out? Mulciber wasn’t here, nor was Riddle, although Riddle usually stayed at Hogwarts. Anyway, he was a half-blood, so even if he was a Knight, he wouldn’t be favorably regarded…

Completely stumped, Alphard shook his head and let out a sigh. Did it really matter who the Dark Lord was? He loathed muggles and muggleborns and wanted them eradicated. Not just controlled, like Grindelwald, but slaughtered. 

Whatever his plan was, Alphard didn’t have much of a choice to go along with it if he wanted to ensure the safety of his family. He would have to join the Knights or support them at the very least. The conclusion gripped his chest, causing a sharp pain when he drew breath. 

~**~ ~**~

Predictably, the Three Broomsticks was filled to capacity on New Year’s Eve right before nine o’clock at night. Many were already quite drunk, and half of the tables were being pushed aside to make room for dancing with an amplified radio. The popular witch Maria Lambetti sang “Tis the Season to Swing!” and swing they all did, everyone except Stateira. 

With berry lips, pinned-up hair, and her nicest silk dress, she stood off to the side in the corner, hugging her cloak tightly around her. A few men had made to approach her, but luckily, the look on her face had them stopping short and turning back. Then, Icarus Yaxley appeared next to her. 

“Hello, Stateira,” he said near her ear, causing her to flinch violently. 

“Merlin’s pants, Icarus,” she snapped. “I nearly jumped out of my shoes.”

He smirked and raised his dark eyebrows. “Would you like to dance?” 

“I can’t, I’m meeting someone. Say, what are you doing here anyway? Haven’t you gone home?”

“Who are you meeting?” he asked curiously. “A bloke from Hogwarts?” 

“None of your business,” she replied pleasantly. 

“Aw, come on, darling, you haven’t got to keep secrets from me. Won’t you tell me in my ear?”

Stateira indulged him, leaning in and whispering in his ear. “No.”

He pulled away and shook his head, annoyed. 

“And if you’ll excuse me, he’ll be here any moment.” She checked her watch—8:59—and walked toward the door. 

“Aw, forget that old sod and come dance!” Yaxley said loudly. 

“Goodnight, Icarus,” she called over her shoulder as she left. The fresh, cold air caressed her face and filled her lungs. Amused as she was, Stateira was also genuinely puzzled as to how Yaxley was in the Three Broomsticks when she hadn’t seen him at Hogwarts once since the end of term, and she could have sworn he’d said he was going home. 

The door opened and he was in front of her again, snarling, “How dare you leave me…” He grabbed her wrist, everything went black, and those great, giant hands were squeezing her, crushing her. 

CRACK! Yaxley let go and she blinked rapidly a couple of times and patted herself down as if to make sure she was still in one piece. Then she realized with shock that Riddle was standing next to her in the same flat she’d visited over the summer. 

“Professor!” she cried. “You—Yaxley—"

He grinned mischievously. “I was testing you.”

“But how did you do it? Polyjuice Potion, I reckon, but how did you change back so fast, sir?” She bit her lip, forgetting about the berry stain. “Did I pass?” 

“Yes, you passed,” he told her. “I have some wards on this place to prevent access. Normally we can’t Apparate in here, but I’ve lifted the spell.” 

Stateira opened her mouth to ask what other types of spells there were, but he said, “Alright, enough questions, my curious girl. Isn’t there something you’ve been wanting all term?” 

Riddle walked over, placed his hand on the back of her neck, and they locked together. His hands traveled down to her bust as she kissed him passionately…and as per his usual, he pulled away too soon. 

“Well, aren’t you eager, darling.”

“Of course!” she declared breathlessly, wishing to seize his robes and pull him into the bedroom. “I don’t need any potion this time!” 

He gestured to the small table in the sitting room. “Well, at least have some champagne.” There was her favorite, rosemary, and a single glass.

“Oh, but you don’t like champagne. What’s your favorite, Professor?” 

“I’m not much of a drinker, but I suppose it would be firewhiskey.”

“Firewhiskey!” Stateira repeated excitedly, rubbing her hands together. “I’ll be right back!” Without further ado, she Apparated back to Hogsmeade. 

Francine’s Wine, Wings, and Wonderful Things was open later on New Year’s Eve. “I would like a bottle of your finest firewhiskey, please,” she said to Francine’s daughter, Evangeline, former Hufflepuff and Trainee Healer.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?”

“No, it’s alright, dear.” 

A ladder whizzed over to Evangeline and Stateira watched her climb to reach the top shelf. Behind the bottles were flickering multi-colored lights like candle flames, each row a different color, giving the shop the look of a square-shaped rainbow. 

“O’Hoolihan’s Black Label Firewhiskey,” Evangeline said as she descended the ladder and took her position in the front. “Twenty galleons.” She gingerly placed the bottle of amber, gold-flecked liquid on the counter. 

“Twenty galleons, that’s a fortune!” Stateira cried in mock-outrage. “Listen, Eva, give it to me for ten, and I won’t ever tell your mother that Slughorn caught you snogging that dreadful Dorio last year.” 

Evangeline rolled her blue-green eyes. “You’re as Slytherin as they come.”

Stateira merely raised an eyebrow. 

“Alright, fine. Ten galleons.”

“Thanks, doll. Happy new year!” 

CRACK! 

Riddle was waiting patiently, sitting in one of the chairs at the table. A glass of champagne stood in front of the other seat. 

“I present to you, O’Hoolihan’s Something or Other Firewhiskey!” Stateira announced, kneeling with a flourish and extending the bottle. 

“You’re very excitable tonight, darling,” he said calmly, taking it from her. “This is wonderful, but you shouldn’t have.”

“Consider it a gift.” She took a seat and reached for the champagne glass. “In exchange for all of the gifts you’ve given me.”

“You’ve given me gifts, too,” he replied from the kitchen. She heard ice clinking against glass. 

“Name one,” she challenged as he walked back over to the table and sat across from her. 

He looked directly at her, smirking. “Your virginity.”

Immediately, Stateira’s face flushed scarlet and she looked down at her hands shyly. “Hmm, that’s a good one. Yes, I would not have given that to anyone else.”

There was an elephant in the room named _Lord Voldemort_ , but neither brought attention to it as they drank their respective bottles, talked freely, and even danced. Stateira, after three glasses of champagne, was a loose and exuberant dancer, while Riddle was stiff and unsure of what to make of her. 

“I’ve only danced once before,” he told her. “At Hogwarts.” 

“Ooh, with whom?” she asked teasingly. “A girlfriend?” 

“No, the Head Girl of 1945, Lysandra Bell. She will be an Auror soon.”

“Oh, an Auror dancing with a Dark Lord?” she laughed. “That’s something that could come straight out of _Cosmic Glitches and Star-Crossed Lovers_. A fairytale book for little witches that came out in '35,” she added at the blank look on his face. “My mum used to read it with me.”

“Well, Bell and I sure weren’t lovers,” Riddle assured her. “I only tolerated her because of Head Duties.” 

“Oh, I like this song!” she declared, Lysandra Bell immediately forgotten. Placing his hand on her waist and pulling him closer, she leaned her head on his shoulder and slowed down the dance. Unconcerned about his reaction, she closed her eyes and sang along:

_Take me_  
_Let’s leave together_  
_Lost in the moonlight_  
_In the land of_  
_Perfect dreams_

Stateira was so lost in the melody, that without her realizing, they’d danced their way into the bedroom. In the sitting room, the record started to skip. 

_Don’t ever leave me, never will I_  
_Be the same again—the same again—the same again—_

Neither paid attention. Riddle closed the door and sat on the bed. Stateira, unsure of what to do, sat next to him and leaned her hands on her knees, catching her breath. 

“I can see I did well,” she bragged, “with that bottle of firewhiskey.”

“Yes, you did,” he agreed. “It was quite a nice gift for my birthday.”

“Your—? Professor! Why didn’t you tell me today is your birthday?” Before he could speak, she seized him by the shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Happy birthday! How old are you?” 

“Twenty-two.” To Stateira’s immense satisfaction, Riddle looked slightly bewildered for a moment. 

“Oh, so young. I always forget that you’re only about Alexander’s age. Well, the age he died, anyway.”

A moment passed where she turned away from Riddle and looked out the window at the fallen snow. Alexander would be 22 forever. She would be 22 one day and would never get to ask him what the next step of the journey entailed. Before she could fight it off, a stifling haze settled around her, pressing down on her shoulders as she wished she could speak to him just one last time. 

“Stateira,” Riddle said quietly. 

She snapped out of the fog and turned back to him. “Goodness, I’m sorry, how very rude of me—"

He pressed a finger to her lips. Cold, always cold. Then he pulled her onto his lap, and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. It felt quite nice to be held in that way, in comfort, like Alex used to hold her when the bombs came. Stateira had not realize how much she needed it again. 

“There, there, darling,” he said softly. “Don’t think of such things. It’s all in the past now, and you’ve got such a bright future.”

“I’m not sure about that,” she muttered, still having no idea what to do after Hogwarts or where to go. 

“Of course you do. I have no doubt that you will get into Auror Training.”

Stateira pulled away to look at him. “You think I should be an Auror?”

“You certainly should,” he replied. “Your marks are excellent, and I know Professor Slughorn and I will write letters of recommendation. Though I do suggest sending Slughorn some crystallized pineapple first. It’s his favorite.”

“Wait a moment, Professor, sorry,” Stateira said, nonplussed. “You _want_ me to be an Auror?” 

“Why does it matter what I want? Unless, of course, you plan to join me.”

“Of course I plan to join you!” she cried, terribly confused now. “Would I be sitting here if not, sir?” _Do you even want me at all?_

Riddle chuckled and held her chin in his hand. “My, you truly are a gift, darling. I’m having such a wonderful birthday because of you.”

The words warmed her, but she did not dwell on them, still ruminating over the Auror talk. Then it all clicked into place; a heavy blanket lifted off her head. “If I become an Auror, I’ll be privy to _everything_ …” 

It was as if she could finally read the map of the journey: she could be the link between the Dark and Light. Now she appreciated the sentiment _knowledge is power_. To have inside knowledge of both parties would bring an abundance of power, even if she needn’t use it. 

“Slowly I will reach into the Ministry,” Riddle said, bringing her back down to Earth. “Albeit very, very slowly. Taking control takes time and, most important, subtlety.” 

Stateira was listening, but simultaneously she was calculating her next courses of action: request an application from the Ministry, a letter of recommendation from the well-connected Professor Slughorn…

“Darling, your head keeps floating off into the clouds,” Riddle pointed out. “There will be plenty of time to prepare.” 

She looked at him, no longer drunk but giddy with excitement. Professor Riddle—Lord Voldemort—wanted her by his side. 

“That’s right, darling, I’ll take care of you.” He pushed her lightly into a lying position. “You must vow to be loyal only to me.”

“I vow, Professor…”

“I am your professor at Hogwarts,” he corrected, pushing her dress up her legs and over her hips. “Everywhere else, I am your Lord and master.”

He kissed her hard, pulling her knickers down, as she tilted her head back. Her hair was a tangle of curls and pins that dug into her scalp, but she wasn’t bothered by that in the least. As his fingers slid inside of her, he nibbled at the skin of her neck, making her arch with pleasure. “Yes, my Lord,” she breathed, holding him tightly and gripping his thick, wavy hair. 

_Be the same again—the same again—the same again—_

The record skipped on in the sitting room, long abandoned. Outside in the still, cold air, a muggle church bell rang, announcing the arrival of 1949. 

~**~ ~**~

Hollis was supremely and terribly bored. He knew he wouldn’t have been able to use magic whether Francesca allowed it or not, but the mere fact that it was forbidden made him want nothing more than to wave his wand and utter an incantation. He’d never fully appreciated magic until he’d gotten to Hogwarts. He missed using it. He missed his mum, gran, sister, and even his brother. Over this break, there was certainly a lot of time to miss people. 

Under normal circumstances, he’d have gone to London, but Gran and his mum were worse off than ever. Just as well; Hollis would’ve felt a bit uncomfortable around them after his Sorting. Gran had said in a letter that she wasn’t cross, but it was possible that she was simply being cordial for the holidays. 

He had the choice to stay at Hogwarts with Stateira, but without his friends, what could he do there? He would’ve been even more lonely and bored, as his sister wasn’t much up for entertaining him anymore. 

His father’s property was usually wonderful. He lived on a lake, in which Hollis could swim in the summer or ice-skate on in the winter. In this oddly warm winter, however, the hills of Northern Ireland hadn’t seen a single flake of snow. The grounds were brown and crispy, while the lake was still and black. It was too cold to spend long periods of time but too warm to do anything of joy that the snow brought. Thus, Hollis was confined to the large, nearly-empty house with Francesca, who didn’t pay him much attention and forbade him to run around or touch anything. 

His father worked long days and when he was home, Francesca clamored for his attention, often leaving Hollis on his own. Surprisingly, this evening Lochlan McElroy came up to his son’s room to chat. 

“Hollis, my boy!” he exclaimed as he entered the room. Once, Hollis had shared this room with Stateira, but she hadn’t been there since 1941, her bed perpetually made up. “What are you up to, lad?” 

“Nothing,” Hollis responded dully. He’d read all his books, even his Hogwarts textbooks, and it was below freezing outside. Even his dad had to admit that Northern Ireland winters weren’t very fun when one had to gather the wood and heat the vast house manually. 

His father was following Hollis’ gaze to the empty bed. “You miss her, yes?” 

Hollis could only nod. 

“How, er, how’s she doing, anyway?” 

“I don’t know.” The boy kept his tone flat. “She doesn’t talk to me.”

“Do you know what she plans on doing after Hogwarts? Getting married, perhaps?” 

“I’m not sure. She hasn’t got a suitor, I don’t think.”

His dad raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit surprising, knowing your gran.”

Hollis shrugged, not wishing to speak any longer. His father didn’t seem to care about his first term at Hogwarts or anything else going on in his life. Stateira had been absent since 1941, and she’d cast Hollis out, so what was the point in dwelling on her?

“I only hope that she doesn’t follow Alexander. They’re so similar; it makes me terribly uneasy. You’re staying away from the Dark Arts, aren’t you, my boy?” 

It took all of Hollis’ self-control not to snort. His wand spent more time in his robes than in his hand, it felt like. He knew magical theory was important, but he was dreaming of the day he could use spells as easily as he could breathe. “No, Dad.” 

Finally sensing his son’s surly mood, McElroy left the room while Hollis thought about his mum, sister, and gran again. His mum had just gotten home from a brief stay at St. Mungo’s, while Gran took care of her like an infant. He’d found out another student at Hogwarts also had a sick parent sapped of powers. Edwina Boot’s dad was so distraught over his wife’s passing that he sat silently in a rocking chair almost every day for hours at a time. 

_Hmm, there’s an idea_ , he thought. Edwina was probably feeling a bit lonely at Hogwarts as well. She might not be too thrilled to receive a letter from a first-year, but maybe it would break the monotony. He went over to his trunk, pulled out a quill, and began to write. 

_3 January 1949_  
_Dear Edwina,_

_Hello and happy new year! I’m unsure why I’m writing, but I thought you could use a bit of correspondence. I shall write to my sister, since she’s at Hogwarts too, but I doubt she will write back. How was your Christmas? Mine was alright, I suppose. I spent it with my dad, his girlfriend, her brother, and his two children. They’re only six and nine, so we had to do the whole Father Christmas bit, which I daresay is quite dull. Anyway, I hope you are well and are having a bit of fun exploring the castle! I’m a bit envious, see, since this blasted cold has trapped us inside. My dad’s owl is very strong, though, and I’ll be he’s bursting to spread his wings. He doesn’t get used much. Take care!_

_Sincerely,_  
_Hollis McElroy_

He folded up the parchment, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it before setting it aside. On a new piece of parchment, he wrote on the top:

_Dear Stateira_

But the rest would not come. Hollis thought about exaggerating his boredom at their father’s house to get in her good graces, but no doubt she’d cotton onto that quickly. He realized that he had a few questions for her, but he’d rather speak directly to her. Some examples of his questions: Was she lonely at Hogwarts? Did she miss Alex and her parents’ old selves as much, or more so than he did? Did she have a suitor, and what _did_ she plan on doing after Hogwarts? 

Who was he kidding? She’d only brush him off and tell him to get lost, as usual. He carefully tore the top inch off the parchment, eliminating his words. He wrote two more that he already knew also wouldn’t get answered:

_Dear Mum_

 

Edwina felt a surge of affection and sorrow for Hollis as she read his letter. She could tell he missed his sister, who hadn’t been seen in the castle since the last day of term. Edwina had gone to seek her out a time or two but gave up shortly, preferring to read instead. A new book, _The Travels of Margot Grover_ , had come out right before Christmas, and her father had gifted it to her. She was so pleased, she vowed to finish it before term started no matter what. It turned out to be excellent and had occupied her for over a week. She had about another 200 pages to go, but she decided to place it on hold. 

It took Edwina a few hours of heavy searching to find Stateira, for the last place she expected her—or anyone at all, for that matter—to be was in the left-wing dungeons. It was freezing down there, and all the classrooms were unoccupied until the start of term in two days. 

She’d caught the girl on the way down but, curious to see where on Earth she was going, Edwina trailed silently behind. As Stateira slipped inside the Defense classroom, Edwina’s heart sank. She hadn’t seen Riddle this entire time, either; had they been holed up here together?

She pressed her ear against the heavy wooden door and heard nothing. Riddle _had left_ , she remembered. He’d been in a travelling cloak as he and the other professors left the Great Hall on the last night of term. Which meant Stateira was in there alone. 

Edwina took a breath, trying to muster some courage. _Don’t be silly_ , she scolded herself. _She is your friend. Alright, estranged as of late, but still a friend. You need to talk to her._

Before she could form a counter-argument, she burst through the door into an empty classroom. Stateira _had_ gone in there, hadn’t she? Then Edwina’s eyes fell on the door to Riddle’s office. Cautiously, she took a step forward. Riddle’s desk was completely clear, so this proved he wasn’t there, unless he was in the office with Stateira… 

Edwina slowly walked over and pressed her ear against the door. A shuffling of pages, a female sigh…silence…she was definitely in there alone. If Edwina didn’t take this chance, she might not have another. She turned the knob but it was locked. 

“ _Alohomora._ ” 

Stateira was sitting at Riddle’s desk, draped in an oversized robe and pointing her wand at Edwina. Her hair was flat and straight, her face devoid of makeup. Wrapped up like that, she looked much younger than 17. On the desk in front of her was an unopened book, _The Travels of Margot Grover_. 

“I’ve almost finished that,” Edwina said, pointing at the book. “It’s quite brilliant, in fact. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

Stateira lowered her wand but kept it tightly in her grasp. “My gran sent it for Christmas.”

Edwina smiled briefly. “My dad sent mine.” She looked around the office. It contained only a bookshelf, the desk, a small table with an empty stone basin, and a door to what was presumably Riddle’s bedroom. 

Stateira set her wand on top of a neat stack of notes. “Sit.” She nodded to the chair on the other side of the desk. 

Hugging herself against the cold, Edwina took a seat. Stateira also pulled her robe tighter, looking at Edwina, patiently waiting for her to speak. There was a Hogwarts insignia on the robe, Edwina noticed, but the robe itself was masculine, a male student’s. 

“Stateira, erm, I just wanted to talk…”

The other girl stated at her, blank-faced. 

“You’ve been sort of distant lately, and, erm, I’m just making sure you’re alright.”

“Yes, I’m alright,” Stateira replied flatly. “Are you?”

“Am I? Oh…yes.”

Glancing at _The Travels of Margot Grover_ , Edwina suddenly had an idea. “May I see the book for a moment? There’s an excellent passage I’d like to highlight.”

Stateira raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Sure.” 

As Edwina pulled the book closer, her hand hit the desk lamp, causing it to fall over and crash to the floor. “Oh, goodness!” she yelped. 

“ _Reparo_ ,” Stateira said calmly, mending the lamp and levitating it back to its spot. “My, Edwina, you’re a bit nervous. It’s just a lamp. Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Yes,” said Edwina hastily. “It’s just, erm, I’ve never been in this office before.” _And I never want to be again_ , she finished in her head. She wasn’t sure if it was the chill, the scarceness, or the fact that her friend crept in here to sit alone, but something about this place gave Edwina an uneasy feeling somewhere deep between her chest and stomach. Trying to swallow it down, she flipped to page 302 and found the passage she wanted to point out:

_“He is just a boy,’ Margot implored. ‘He knows not what the journey entails!’_

_‘Oh, have no fear, child!’ her uncle cried, caressing her cheek. ‘He has you to take his hand and lead him. One could travel a thousand years of journey and woe with only the memory of the touch of a guiding hand! It is you must act as the sun shining abright upon a field, providing light and nourishment. I shall have no doubts you will nurture your brother as such. He is made of the same blood and bones after all.”_

As Stateira read, the front section of her hair slid off her shoulder and hung over her face, revealing a dark purple mark on her neck. Catching Edwina looking as she finished the passage, she tucked her hair into the robe. “Interesting,” she remarked, shutting the book. “I look forward to reading.”

Edwina tried a joke. “I see you’ve got yourself a bloke.”

“He’s not just a bloke,” Stateira whispered, gazing slightly past her with longing in her eyes. “He is so much more than that.”

It dawned on Edwina that Professor Riddle was reciprocating Stateira’s feelings at least somewhat if he was giving her marks on her neck and his old Hogwarts robe. The whole picture made Edwina feel a bit sick, but their affair, as unhealthy as it seemed to be, was really none of her business, so she plunged into the real reason why she came. 

“Hollis wrote me a letter.” 

Stateira raised her eyebrows in interest, but Edwina suspected it was feigned. “Did he?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “He said he was writing to you as well. You haven’t received it?” 

Stateira shook her head, indifferent. “No.” She looked down at the book, running her fingers over the embossed title. 

“And…you aren’t the least bit concerned about him?” Edwina blurted, trying to keep the bite out of her voice.

“Hollis will turn 12 in three weeks’ time,” Stateira said simply. “He’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but,” Edwina said patiently, wishing the girl would look up, “twelve is still young to be on your own.”

Stateira shrugged dismissively. “Many people are on their own at age 12. I certainly was. That was around the time Alexander went abroad.”

“Right, and now you’ve not got any guidance, and don’t you think Alexander’s death is affecting Hollis, too?” 

“I’ve sought plenty of guidance,” Stateira replied. “And Hollis has too, from his blood traitor father. I assure you, Edwina, he’s having a ball up there in that winter wonderland.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be with them? Instead of here ‘seeking guidance’ from Professor Riddle?” 

Although her eyes flashed with anger, Stateira chuckled as if Edwina was a small child who had said something cute. “No. But tell me, Edwina dear, what’s wrong with seeking guidance from Professor Riddle?” 

“Come off it,” Edwina snapped, irritated at Stateira’s mock-innocence. “We all know he’s giving you more than guidance; the whole school knows it. You think you’ve got your brother back, but what kind of professor would take advantage of such a vulnerable—"

“Get out.” The words were even-toned, almost pleasant.

“I—"

“I said, kindly _get out_.” Stateira was no longer smiling, eyes boring into Edwina’s. Edwina gripped the edge of the desk in front of her, briefly debating whether to pull out her wand. She preferred words to magic. 

“You can’t just tell me to—"

“ _Relashio!_ ” 

Edwina was thrown back, out of the chair and against the bookshelf, which rattled precariously. Her back seared with pain as her rear landed on her ankle. Wincing in pain, she jumped to her feet, wand raised. It was no use; she knew from countless Defense classes that Stateira’s dueling skills surpassed her own. 

Tears stinging her eyes, Edwina gave Stateira one last look of hurt mixed with disgust before bolting out. Behind her, the office door slammed shut. 

_Well, you tried, darling, and that’s all you can do,_ her mum’s voice tried to comfort her. It was in vain. As soon as she was in the mercifully empty Ravenclaw common room, she sank her head in her hands and cried, dreading the start of term.

~**~ ~**~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI:  
> -Lyrics are taken from Laibach's "Take Me to Heaven," which was actually released in 2012, but due to its style I stuck it here in 1948. XD  
> -I no longer have an update schedule. I'll try to keep it regular.


	8. Spring 1949

A thick fog of tension slowly permeated the castle as more muggle casualties made headlines. The Slytherins were blamed by default, but they didn’t bother to try and sway anyone’s opinion. Who was going to mess with Malfoy, et al? Only a fool would ask for that type of trouble. 

Stateira wasn’t expecting to get in any trouble at all. She had a job to do, which was apply for Auror Training. Immediately upon the start of term, she sent Professor Slughorn a case of crystallized pineapple, claiming it was a “late Christmas gift.” Then two months passed until it was time for Step Two. 

Last week, she’d made the perfect blend of Invisibility Potion, earning 50 points to Slytherin and extravagant praise from Slughorn. Best to catch him while he’s buttered up. 

After Defense class on the last Friday of March, Stateira strode confidently—or appeared to—out of the room and down the corridor. Although her head was held high, her palms were sweaty and her heart beat faster than usual. It was not as if she expected Slughorn to say no, but the thought of asking for such a big favor made her want to curl up and hide. 

She knocked on the door of the Potions classroom, taking a deep breat. 

“Enter!” Slughorn’s voice called. 

He was sitting at his desk, grading papers. On a tin tray, about eight treacle tarts were arranged in a circle with two gaps. 

“Ah, hello, Stateira!” Slughorn said genially. “Have a seat. Would you like a treacle tart?” 

“No, thank you, sir, I’m not very hungry,” Stateira lied. She was very hungry but she didn’t want to waste time eating. 

“Thank you, by the way, for that crystallized pineapple! How did you know it was my favorite?” 

“Lucky guess, sir,” she replied. “My gran likes it as well.”

“Well then, what can I do for you, my dear? Not coming to tell me my lessons are too slow, are you?”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said. “It’s just, erm…” She looked at the floor, her bravado leaving her. “I want to become an Auror, you see, and, erm, I would like to apply to the Ministry…”

“Ah yes, and you need a letter of recommendation, correct?” 

She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” 

“Excellent! You know, I wrote Argus Belby one when he went to Hogwarts back in ’39. I’ve had plenty of brilliant students ask me for them, so I knew it would only be a matter of time before you did.”

“Well, everyone knows how highly-regarded you are to the Ministry, sir,” Stateira said, confidence growing. “A letter from you holds a significant amount of weight.”

He beamed at her and she knew nothing could go wrong now. Riddle had told her Slughorn was a sucker for flattery. 

“Yes, of course I’ll write you a letter of recommendation, my dear,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll have it by Monday.”

“Thank you so much, Professor!” she said earnestly. 

“No problem, Stateira, not at all! I have complete faith that you will thrive as an Auror. Say, don’t you need two letters? I recommend asking Professor Riddle. He speaks most highly of you.” 

Slughorn was lost in thought for a moment. “Yes, do. He’s a remarkable wizard, you know. Just brilliant! I always thought he’d go on to the Ministry as well, but he says his true passion is teaching. You boys and girls are very lucky.”

“Indeed, sir,” she agreed. “He definitely is remarkable.”

His gaze wandered for another moment before he came back down to Earth. “Your Potions partner has asked me for a letter as well, and I plan on giving her one.”

“Who, sir?” Stateira asked, thrown off guard. 

“Why, Edwina Boot, of course!” 

Stateira stared dumbly at Slughorn. She had known Edwina wanted to go to Auror Training, but she’d completely forgotten that, never having thought about it for more than a moment. Without an idea of what to say or even think, she thanked Slughorn again and excused herself. 

As she walked to the Great Hall, she replayed the last terrible time she’d spoken to Edwina, when she’d thrown her out of Riddle’s office. Stateira felt rather ashamed of how badly she’d lashed out, but then again, the girl shouldn’t have gone off making assumptions about her affairs. And in such a nasty manner— _taking advantage of…_

She walked to the Slytherin table, looking out of the side of her eye at the Head Girl. She was sitting with Antonia and Achilles Longbottom. Next to Antonia sat Hollis, picking at his food forlornly. 

What if Edwina was right? Stateira did seem to be neglecting Hollis lately. The least she could do was strike up a conversation with the kid. Did that mean Edwina was right about everything else? No, of course not. She wasn’t being taken advantage of. She was a Slytherin, for heaven’s sake, and Slytherins weren’t suckers. _She really doesn’t know me at all._

At eight o’clock, Stateira headed down to the Defense classroom for her weekly meeting with Riddle. She knew she’d be utterly useless with Legilimency—more than usual—for the news of Edwina was plaguing her. The purpose of this meeting would be to prod Riddle slightly toward that letter, the missing piece of the Auror Training application. This should’ve been easy, since it was he who had told her to become an Auror in the first place. No, not told, _suggested_ it to her. 

_What kind of professor would take advantage of—_ A Dark Lord, that’s what kind. 

“Good evening, Professor Riddle,” she said dully as she walked into the classroom and closed the door behind her. 

“Good evening, Miss McElroy,” he replied with a tiny smirk, looking her up and down. She knew he enjoyed the student-professor guise, the secrecy. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

“Yes, Professor,” she said, walking to the chair in front of his desk, keeping her mind clear. She was rather good at Occlumency now, except that clearing her mind without the opponent’s knowledge was key but also a lot trickier. “I am applying for Auror Training and would like to ask you for a letter of recommendation, sir, if it’s not too much trouble. Sl—Professor Slughorn has agreed. Your suggestion worked, by the way, so thank you.”

“Of course, Miss McElroy.” He flipped through a stack of parchment, but it was all written on. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time, sir,” Stateira said, staring at her knees. He looked over his shoulder at her in confusion before entering his office. She knew she was being unusually flat and listless, but she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. All she wished to do was climb into her bed, close her eyes, and cease all thought. 

About five minutes later, Riddle reappeared holding a scroll. He set it on the desk and took a seat. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

“Stateira, what’s happened?” 

His dark eyes held hers as her knuckle pressed against her lip. She kept her mind clear, but it wasn’t guaranteed to last. “Nothing, Professor. I’m simply tired, so I’d like to postpone our lesson if it’s alright? Any evening—"

“You are lying to me,” he said quietly. Before she could react, he ripped through her Occlumency to that day during winter break in his office. Heated words were exchanged between Stateira and Edwina before the former raised her wand. As Edwina slammed into the bookshelf, the burn of shame seared through Stateira’s chest again. She blinked, back in the Defense classroom, and tore her eyes away from Riddle’s piercing glare. 

“Professor,” she said desperately. “Boot is starting to suspect something. I think it’s best we meet every other week instead until any suspicion she has dies down.”

“You do not care what Boot suspects, do you?” His voice came out low and his eyes were narrowed. For a couple of wild seconds, Stateira thought he was angry she’d snuck into his office. Then the last bit of Edwina’s confrontation replayed, the harsh words… Riddle stood up, walked around his desk, and stopped in front of her. She recoiled, biting her knuckle.

“You _doubt_ me.”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. Abruptly, he seized her wrist and yanked her hand away from her mouth. Still holding her wrist, he leaned down and rested his cheek against hers. “You doubt I love you,” he said into her ear. 

As he pulled away, Stateira gaped at him, speechless. Her brain chose that moment to freeze as he gave her one last look of contempt before striding into his office and slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone in the classroom. 

It took a moment for her to unlock her muscles and leave the room. Her mind couldn’t seem to process what had just happened. Holding the scroll, she made a beeline for her dormitory, avoiding everyone, wizard and ghost alike. As soon as she sat down on her bed, alone in the room, she unrolled the parchment to read the letter. 

_In the past two years of my instruction, Miss McElroy has shown substantial strength and determination to master defense of the Dark Arts_ , it said. _Clever, obedient, and an innovative thinker, she is easily in the top 5% of her year._

Stateira rolled the parchment back up and placed it behind the Auror Training application in her desk as tears blurred her vision. _I’ve really done it now. I’ve mucked up the best thing to ever happen to me._

Her ears started to ring painfully as she viciously chewed her finger, trying to get her hurt and self-loathing under control. It was she who did this; she didn’t deserve him. The bed started to shake as she breathed rapidly. If she didn’t get ahold of herself, disaster was sure to come…

CRACK! The bedframe broke, throwing her off balance. Horrified, she ran out of the room, through the common room, and out of the dungeons. Forcing herself to slow down, she pretended to be doing prefect rounds, checking empty classrooms along the way to the first-floor bathroom. 

Inside was dark, empty, and silent, just as Stateira had hoped. In the moonlight shining through the window, she could see her swollen, narrowed eyes. All she wanted was him, but she’d gone and made him angry. What had he even meant by his statement? _You doubt I love you._

“Of course he doesn’t love you, you insolent, pathetic little girl,” she told the witch in the mirror. 

“Well, I don’t love him either!” a voice cried, causing Stateira to jump out of her skin. 

“Who’s there?” She looked around the room, waving her wand across the stalls, slamming the doors open. “Show yourself now! I am a prefect!” 

“Ooh, will you give me detention?” the voice cackled. “Poor prefect crying over a pathetic boy!”

Stateira turned around sharply and found herself face-to-face with a shorter, much plumper girl with pigtails and glasses. Except the girl wasn’t solid but slightly transparent with a very faint shimmer. 

“Who in the name of Merlin are you?” Stateira blurted.

“I’m Myrtle Warren,” the ghost said. “Or as everyone else in this blasted school liked to call me, ‘Moaning Myrtle.’”

The nickname stirred up a memory in Stateira’s mind: 1943, the Chamber of Secrets legend, and the death of a young girl. “Oh, you’re that mud—muggleborn that died in ’43! I remember that!”

“Glad my death was so memorable when no one cared about me while I was alive!” Myrtle hissed. “Now get out!”

“Goodness, aren’t we touchy,” Stateira said in a falsely sweet voice. “Perhaps that’s why not many cared for you while you were alive, hmm?” 

“GET OUT!” the ghost shrieked before letting out a wail. 

Snickering, Stateira left the bathroom and, to her relief, the urge to destroy had completely subsided, even when she thought of Riddle again. Instead of anger, she only felt loss, almost as strong as when she’d learned of Alexander’s fate. 

 

Edwina was only waiting on Slughorn’s recommendation letter to send out her Auror Training application. The other professor she’d asked was Merrythought, who’d happily written one on the spot. Antonia had asked for a look at the application to “prepare,” and Edwina had obliged. In the absence of her friendship with Stateira, another one with Antonia was starting to blossom again, thanks to the DA. 

So far in 1949, there had been four attacks on muggleborn families, but none were connected to anyone at Hogwarts. That changed on the sixth of April. 

The DA met at eight o’clock in Professor Merrythought’s room as usual, but as soon as Edwina entered, she immediately knew something was wrong. Everyone looked stricken, especially Antonia, who looked on the verge of tears. 

“What’s happened?” Edwina asked her in alarm. 

“Joseph Langdon,” Antonia whispered as her eyes brimmed with tears. 

“Who?”

“A sixth-year Hufflepuff,” Achilles said grimly. “A muggleborn.”

“Oh, no…the Knights got his family?” 

“No, they got _him_. His body was found behind the Hog’s Head.”

A hand flew to Edwina’s mouth. “He was murdered?”

“Yes,” said Professor Merrythought with a tired sigh, “with the Killing Curse in broad daylight in Hogsmeade this afternoon.”

“I wonder why he was there?” Minerva piped up. “And if any other students were, too?” 

“We’ve checked, and to our knowledge, Joseph was the only student out of Hogwarts,” Merrythought told her. “We aren’t sure at this time why he was in Hogsmeade, but a couple of his fellow Hufflepuffs said he’d told them he was going to the library. That was the last time anyone saw him.”

“Only 16 years old,” Antonia mumbled. “So young to die…and for what? Someone’s stupid political agenda?”

“Wilhelmina Tuft sure has her work cut out for her these days,” Merrythought said, shaking her head. “Right now the Knights are using examples of that Skeeter’s shameful, lying book to present Dumbledore as a fool. We were hoping once everyone had moved on from that, the attacks would die down, but they seem to be increasing. This is the first murder of someone underage.”

“This reminds me of that other young girl that died in the bathroom in our first year,” Achilles said to Ignatius and Bruin. “What was her name? Mary?”

“Myrtle Warren,” Edwina said quietly. “She was a third-year.”

Hollis looked puzzled; he hadn’t been at Hogwarts in 1943 and evidently his sister had never informed him of it. Of course she didn’t, Edwina thought snidely as all of her ill feelings toward Stateira flooded through her for a moment. She made a mental note to fill Hollis in later. 

Antonia had gone quiet, no longer crying. Everyone sort of sat around wallowing in misery for a few moments until Minerva spoke. 

“Perhaps Joseph Langdon was killed by a…another student?” 

“He must have been!” Antonia burst out. “It must have been the same one who opened the Chamber of Secrets in 1943!” 

“I thought that was disproved,” Fleamont said. “I’d heard she was actually killed by an acromantula baby some other student was trying to raise inside the castle.”

“That’s what we were told by Dippet,” Ignatius added. 

“ _Headmaster_ Dippet,” Merrythought corrected. “And yes, it was determined that she was killed by an acromantula. However, Professor Dumbledore had his doubts. He suspected another student but refused to tell anyone whom. 

“So it has to be a student!” Antonia shrieked. “A Slytherin! I bet it was one of those in that awful seventh-year group. Malfoy, Yaxley, Delmont, Black—"

“Not Black,” said Ignatius, shaking his head. “Alphard Black is alright. He’s only a part of that group by default.”

“I’ll bet it was Malfoy,” Bruin piped up. “He’s a twisted prat. And he was here in ’43 as well.”

“But it was our first year, remember?” Ignatius replied. “I doubt Malfoy could have figured out how to open the Chamber of Secrets that fast. Malfoy’s no genius, just a conniver.”

“Alright, but we’ve still got Yaxley and Delmont.”

“I dunno,” Achilles said. “They rally more around Professor Riddle and since he’s the Defense teacher, I don’t reckon they’re too inclined toward the Dark Arts.”

“Yes, but Riddle teaches a few Dark spells, doesn’t he? He told us at the beginning of term he would be.”

Achilles, Ignatius, and Edwina nodded. Merrythought, who’d been jotting down a few notes, dropped her quill and gave the students a look of outrage. 

“Professor Riddle is _teaching you Dark spells?”_

“Yes, Professor,” Achilles answered. 

Bruin, Minerva, Fleamont, and Hollis looked surprised as well. “Well, I’ll have to speak with Armando about that!” Merrythought declared. 

“He knows, Professor,” Edwina told her, hoarse from not speaking. She cleared her throat. “On the first day of class, remember, Ignatius?” 

“Yes, I asked him,” Ignatius replied, a touch of his old pompousness returning. “And he said—"

“Asked who?” Fleamont interrupted. 

“Riddle—"

“ _Professor_ Riddle, Mr. Prewett.” 

“Yes, Professor Riddle told us that Dip—Headmaster Dippet approves of the curriculum.”

“I’ll verify that,” Merrythought said, “but it’s probably true. Everyone at Hogwarts, including our headmaster, is rather…fond of him.”

Including Stateira, Edwina thought, although her former friend had been looking particularly glum lately, staring at her knees during Defense theory. She and Edwina were still partners, but their practical spell work was strictly business. 

“Probably because he’s young and handsome,” Antonia said irritably. “All the girls in my class drool over him. It’s rather pathetic.”

“He’s a decent teacher,” Achilles told her. “You can’t deny that.” 

“I’m not _denying_ it, Achilles, I’m saying—"

“Alright so Malfoy, Yaxley, and Delmont are the rotten trio, we reckon, yeah?” Bruin asked. “We need to keep an eye on them.”

Antonia let out a huffy breath and rubbed her eyes. “We need to do more than that. But how?” 

No one had an answer for her. None of the students were keen on getting close to the three nastiest Slytherins. 

After the meeting was over, Edwina and Antonia walked to the common room, the boys slightly ahead and talking amongst themselves. About halfway there, Antonia suddenly grabbed Edwina’s wrist. “Come with me,” she muttered in her ear.

Antonia dragged her to an empty classroom and closed the door. “Listen, I know you said you don’t want to spy on Stateira McElroy,” she said, plunging straight to the point, “but I think it’s time to view things a little differently. Students are dying now, Edwina. Your friendship—"

“There is no friendship,” Edwina cut her off. “We’ve had a row.”

“When?”

“Over winter break.” Edwina cast her eyes down in shame; she felt rather foolish bringing up Stateira’s relationship with Professor Riddle and throwing it in her face. 

“Over what? Riddle?” 

"I—erm. Yes.” 

Forgetting her mission for a moment, Antonia leaned in, eyes wide. “Is she having an affair with him?” 

“I don’t know,” Edwina said quickly. “Honestly, I don’t. I’d originally gone to try to convince her to pay more attention to Hollis, and then…it escalated.”

“Was it that bad?” Antonia asked thoughtfully. “I’m sure you could salvage it.”

Edwina shook her head with grim finality. “No. She threw me out with a Revulsion Jinx.”

“Merlin’s beard, Edwina, what could _you_ have done for her to jinx you? I thought you’d be the only one at Hogwarts safe from that temper of hers.”

Edwina turned away, sighing, and tapped her fingers on the nearest desk. “I told her that _if_ she is indeed seeing Riddle, he’s taking advantage of her.”

Antonia touched her shoulder. “You’re right, Edwina. He _is_ taking advantage. He’s a professor and she a student. You reckon we should tell Dippet?” 

“Absolutely not,” Edwina said firmly. “We’ve no proof and even if we had, they are both adults.”

“Alright, so any hope of rekindling that friendship is dashed for now.” Antonia started to pace, back in planning mode. “There must be some way to find out if those Slytherin boys know anything. Maybe Ignatius could talk to Black, but if Black is more involved with them than he’s telling Ignatius, it could get ugly…”

She trailed off, stopping short and looking at Edwina with wide eyes. There was no use prompting her, so Edwina waited patiently for Antonia to spit out her sudden idea. 

_“Polyjuice Potion!”_

“Pardon?”

“Polyjuice Potion!” Antonia repeated loudly before clapping a hand over her mouth and holding up a finger. They waited in silence, listening for any lurkers, but no one was out since it was past curfew already. “We snatch a hair from one of those Slytherins and impersonate them!” 

“Antonia,” Edwina said as gently as possible. “That is an extremely risky idea. If a professor finds out, we’ll be expelled for sure.”

“Who cares? This is more serious than NEWTs and graduation. People are _dying_ , Edwina! I cannot just stand here and do nothing!”

Although Antonia’s fanatical nature tended to get on Edwina’s nerves from time to time, she had to admire the girl’s bravery even if she considered it very reckless. “Alright, Antonia, but if the Slytherins find out, you’ll be facing much more danger than getting kicked out of Hogwarts. Especially if they are involved with the Knights. If they’ll kill a fellow student just because he’s muggleborn, imagine how fast they’ll kill someone who suspects them.”

“You’re right. That’s why we must have a solid, fail-proof plan.” Antonia walked briskly over to Edwina and took her hand. “Edwina, will you help me?” 

Edwina met Antonia’s fearful but determined gaze. “Yes.”

“Do you swear not to mention it to anyone else? Not even another member of the DA?”

“I swear.” 

They shook hands and, unable to control herself, Antonia pulled Edwina into a tight hug. Edwina patted her friend’s back awkwardly, wondering if she should try to talk her out of this dangerous plan. 

The next morning, as Edwina entered the Great Hall for breakfast, she watched the Slytherin table out of the side of her eye. Since she was a few minutes late, everyone was sitting in their usual positions: Malfoy and Yaxley on one side, leading the conversation, and Black and Delmont sitting across from them. Next to Malfoy sat Stateira, unengaged in their conversation and looking utterly miserable. Edwina wondered if she should try speaking to her again, but ultimately, it was a terrible idea. Since Hollis was still behaving normally, Edwina assumed that whatever was making Stateira miserable was at Hogwarts. Her marks were still above average, so the only other conclusion to come to was that something had happened between her and Professor Riddle. 

_Well, good_ , Edwina thought. _Maybe she’s realized that I’m right and that she’s better off without him_. However, if that was the case, Stateira would not be walking around like she was at a perpetual funeral. In any case, Edwina couldn’t worry about her. She had to study the Slytherin boys, how they interacted and spent their time. This, above all, was crucial. 

 

“Well done, Delmont,” Malfoy said as soon as they’d all gathered in Riddle’s classroom. “Next time you come round my manor, we’ll drink a bottle of O’Hoolihan’s firewhiskey. Father says it’s the best. You haven’t got any alcohol, have you, Professor?” 

“Not for you lot,” Riddle replied, but he, too, looked rather pleased. 

“Oh, come on, Professor, it’s a celebration,” Malfoy groaned. “Slughorn gives us a glass of mead at his meetings.”

“Slughorn has been here much longer than I have and therefore has more freedom.”

Malfoy knew not to argue, sensing the impatience in Riddle’s voice. Delmont simply sat with a proud, arrogant expression, Yaxley looked rather mutinous, and Alphard was subdued, hoping no one would address him. 

Ignatius Prewett had asked him why he continued to spend so much time with Malfoy, et al. Alphard had no answer other than that he was expected to, but of course he didn’t tell Ignatius that. He was finding himself telling Ignatius other risky things, though, such as how he really felt about muggleborns—that they were wizards too, that blood had not much to do with magical ability. As far as muggles, well, he wished wizards didn’t have to hide from them; wasn’t there a way they could peacefully coexist? 

Ignatius had very similar thoughts, so the two of them often met up in the library, where none of the other Slytherin boys ever stepped foot in unless they had an essay due the next day. Madam Elspeth didn’t mind if they spoke quietly if not many others were there at the time. It was not as if Alphard was actually hiding the friendship from the Knights, but he knew he would face hell from his parents if they found out he was consorting with a suspected blood traitor. Alphard could not help it; he feared he would lose his marbles if he couldn’t simply discuss normal subjects, not blood purity and murder. 

“Awfully quiet, Black,” Malfoy remarked. Yaxley, Delmont, and Riddle turned to him. 

“Worried about NEWTs,” Alphard said quietly. 

“Always concerned about your poxy marks,” Yaxley sneered. He was rather vicious when he was upset. 

“That’s called responsibility, Icarus,” Riddle said. “You should take a leaf out of his book.”

The other two snickered, giving Yaxley a clap on the back as he scowled even deeper. He was unusually cross, Alphard noticed, ever since the news of Joseph Langdon reached Hogwarts. From Malfoy’s praise, Alphard had gleaned that Delmont had done it. There was a pattern: all of the aspiring Knights had been told to murder a muggle or muggleborn. Did that mean every Knight had killed one? Including Avery, Lestrange, Riddle, Orion, and—he could barely bring himself to think it—Cygnus?

Alphard realized that while the others were caught up in conversation, Riddle was watching him. He swallowed, his throat suddenly too dry, and turned away. 

“Now you’ve got to get yourself a witch, mate,” Malfoy was saying to Delmont. “Fawley’s free.” 

At that, Yaxley turned a furious red. He’d been talking about Beryl Fawley ever since her parents had hosted a holiday party at their house and invited the Yaxleys. “McElroy is also free,” he said in a low voice. 

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy snapped. “You all know McElroy’s mine.”

“You’ve been saying that for years and yet there she is, still single. Maybe I should take her.”

“What’s the matter with you today, Yaxley? Pull your wand out of your arse.”

Now Riddle was watching the pair bicker, mildly amused. Alphard found it a bit odd how engaged he was today, since normally he tuned everything out and methodically graded assignments. Eventually, after another bout of bickering, he dismissed them all except for one:

“Alphard, if you don’t mind, please stay behind for a moment.”

Yet again, none of the others deigned to give Alphard a second glance on their way out except for Malfoy, who shot him a look of open disgust. It was rather unnerving, as Malfoy had never shown blatant contempt for Alphard before. On principle, the Malfoy and Black families consorted together regardless of true feelings, being two of the purest and wealthiest in Magical Britain. 

After they left, Riddle motioned for Alphard to sit in the chair in front of his desk. 

“Alphard,” he said in the same friendly tone. “I’ve seen that since you became Head Boy, your marks have improved. You are easily my top student.”

“I thought McElroy was your top student, sir.” It came out much blunter than Alphard had intended, but he wasn’t pleased about receiving any more advice from Riddle. It was obvious he’d been tasked by the Dark Lord to recruit him as a Knight. Either that or he was a murderer. 

“Well, she and you are tied, I suppose,” Riddle replied, a slight edge to his voice now. “She is planning on entering the Ministry and I wonder, are you planning on doing the same? Your father has many connections, I hear.”

“I—I’m not sure yet, sir,” Alphard said. Privately, he was doubting any McElroy could get a job in the Ministry after Alexander’s conviction. Perhaps a better-connected family would be able to swing it, but not hers. 

“Well, listen. I’ve written her a recommendation letter and I’m extending the same offer to you. Professor Slughorn and I both take pride in our bright Slytherin students and want them to succeed in all of their endeavors.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Alphard said, taken aback. He had not expected Riddle to encourage him to go to the _Ministry of Magic_ of all places. 

“It’s no trouble at all, Alphard,” Riddle said kindly. 

Alphard left the classroom to meet with the prefects and collect the rounds, thinking hard. _Was_ Riddle a Knight? Perhaps he was not, only a supporter of the Dark Lord, but was that any better?

At least he wouldn’t be a murderer in that case, Alphard told himself. Also, what was he planning to do after Hogwarts? He did not want to live off the family fortune, succumbing completely to his father, like Orion and Walburga. No, he had to make a name for himself, and the Ministry would be a good place to start. Perhaps he would ask Riddle and Slughorn for those letters after all. Pollux had many connections and his Aunt Dorea worked in the Treasury. _I’ve got to do it_ , Alphard thought. _I’ve got to find a way out._

~**~ ~**~

Eight weeks. Eight weeks of nothing from Riddle, not even a glance. Stateira had put more efforts in her studies, not only to impress him but to distract her from the aching emptiness. Even Vector told her he expected an O on her Arithmancy NEWT, and Arithmancy was her worst subject. She’d sent in the Auror Training application, and there was nothing else to do besides study for NEWTs and wait for an acceptance letter at the end of May. The weeks had passed in a dull, nondescript blur. She had not one friend—Fawley, Rosier, and Parkinson no longer bothered with pleasantries, while Edwina was strictly a Defense and Potions partner.

She knew she would go mad if she didn’t do something soon, so on the second Friday of April, she headed down the first-floor corridor from the Great Hall, intending to go to the dungeons. Then she bumped into Hollis coming from Merrythought’s Defense class. 

Stateira hadn’t followed through on talking to him more often, but she did smile and wave whenever they passed each other. That wasn’t frequent, as there were not many places shared by a first-year Ravenclaw and seventh-year Slytherin at the same time. And during meals, he sat with the two girls she was keen on avoiding. 

“Hello, Hollis! Quite a bit of time has passed since we last spoke,” she said jovially. “Fancy a walk with me?” 

“Er, alright,” said Hollis, clearly surprised. 

They walked side-by-side the opposite way, passing the Great Hall on their way to the second floor. “I haven’t made much time for you, brother,” she said apologetically. “How are your classes going?” 

“Not bad,” Hollis answered. 

“Which is your favorite?” 

“Hmm, I’d have to say Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Excellent! That’s mine as well.”

“Really?” Hollis looked at Stateira quizzically. 

“Why, yes. Why is that so shocking?” 

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “I just, er… Say! Is it true that Professor Riddle teaches some Dark spells?” 

“It certainly is,” Stateira told him, gloating internally at his intrigue. “He’s a _brilliant teacher_ , much better than Merrythought.” 

Hollis bit his lip, and she could tell she’d made him uncomfortable. Luckily, a trio of tiny Ravenclaws passed by. “Hi, Hollis!” one of them said as they waved at him. Hollis returned the greeting, smiling, back to his bouncy self. 

“Mates, yes?” Stateira said. “Have you got a best one yet?” 

To her confusion, he looked mildly nervous for a moment. “Erm, yeah.”

“What’s his name? Or is it a girl?” 

“No, it’s a bloke. His name’s Fleamont Potter.”

The name sounded familiar, but Stateira couldn’t place it. Potter, Potter… They rounded a corner and saw two younger-years standing apart, wands raised and pointed at each other. “Oi!” she shouted at them. “Lower your wands at once or it’s 10 points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff! You go that way and you the other. Go on!”

Begrudgingly, they parted ways, stomping down the corridor in opposite directions. 

“So Fleamont Potter,” Stateira said as if nothing had interrupted. “I don’t think I know of him. Is he a Ravenclaw, too?” 

Her brother looked down at the floor, avoiding her gaze. “Erm, no. He’s a Gryffindor.” He said it so low, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. 

“Oh, a Gryffindor, alright,” she said, and her unbothered tone brought his eyes to her. 

“You’re not—not upset?” he asked timidly. 

She stopped then, grabbing his shoulders and holding him face-to-face with her. “Hollis. I told you a million times, it matters not who you associate with, as long as they aren’t mudbloods. It isn’t even safe to be around those.”

She’d lost him again. It struck her how similar he looked to the Alexander of her childhood, yet his mind worked so differently. “Look, Hollis, you’re my brother and nothing is going to change that. I’m not fussed that you’re a Ravenclaw and neither is Gran. On that subject, won’t you please send her a letter? She’s awfully worried about you.”

“She is?” 

“Of course! Remember, brother: family is everything. That’s why purebloods are so valuable; we recognize the importance of family. Tradition, dedication, and unity are what sets us apart from the rest.”

“Dad says love and kindness sets us apart from the rest.”

She stroked his cheeks, freckled like her own. “Dad is a liar and a blood traitor, Hollis. I’m looking out for you and I always will. So if you have any troubles, don’t hesitate to come to me, alright?” 

“Erm, alright.” Hollis appeared grateful and disconcerted at his sister’s non-traditional outreach. “Oh! What time is it?” 

“Half-seven. Why?” 

“I, erm, have to go. Meeting someone…”

Stateira smiled and kissed him on the cheek, noting that he was already quite tall, only a few centimeters below her. “Well, I’m glad we got to speak! I’ll see you around, Hollis.”

“Bye,” he said, standing in the same spot as if he was unsure of what to do, even though he’d just said he had to go. 

She, however, did not want to waste time. She didn’t spend five whole galleons on Wendy’s Ready-Hot Rollers for nothing, and her curls were certainly not going to last all night. 

As predicted, the dungeons were empty, since the Friday night gatherings were about to start. Stateira had only one “gathering” in mind, which was going to occur whether the other party was keen on it or not. 

The empty, dark Defense classroom stole a few of her breaths, but she walked through it briskly with her head held high, determined not to go through another eight weeks like the previous. 

She knocked on the door to his office. Light shone through the tiny crack, letting her know he was in there. Before she could prepare, the door opened and there he stood, looking at her with his eyebrows raised. She opened her mouth to ask if they could speak, but Riddle took a step back and held out his hand, gesturing her inside. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss McElroy?” he asked as he closed the door. 

They stood face-to-face, less than arm’s length apart. She saw traces of the same contempt he had for her the last time they’d been alone together. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to be as direct as possible. Hiding anything was out of the question. 

“Professor, I’m sorry I doubted you,” she said clearly, her voice threatening to waver. “I don’t have an excuse, but I can’t imagine why the most powerful and brilliant wizard of the 20th century would want a silly, ordinary witch.”

Flattery didn’t work on only Slughorn; apparently Riddle had an ego as well. Perhaps the words were different coming from her than the other professors and Knights. 

“That’s how you view yourself after all I’ve taught you?” he asked, taking a step closer. “Edwina Boot is a silly, ordinary witch.”

She looked away, bitten and swollen knuckle pressed against her lip. 

“That Antonia Longbottom you’re so concerned about is a silly, ordinary witch. You know you aren’t like them.”

His cold fingers wrapped around her wrist as he tugged her hand away. “That is why I chose you over them. You’re the perfect one to sit at my side as I carry out my plans. But if you don’t trust me, it’s not going to work.” 

“I do trust you, Professor!” Stateira assured him. “Well, I’m learning to. I haven’t got much experience with…these types of things.”

“Yes, I know, darling.” Riddle’s voice was gentle now, and he held her hand in both of his, stroking her palm with his finger. “I’ll teach you that, too. As long as you keep your vow.”

“Of course!” She stepped closer, placed her hand on his neck, and leaned in to whisper seductively in his ear. “I will never waver in my loyalty to you, my Lord.”

He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her roughly toward him. Stateira felt a twinge of pride in herself, in how she could arouse him with relative ease. Like this, she was almost as powerful as he. She touched her lips lightly to his neck, enjoying the thrill. A second later, he pulled away and turned around. 

Stateira, now burning with desire, watched him open the door to his bedroom and walk through. 

“Come, Stateira. I’ve got your favorite record.”

The room looked similar to a prefect’s, containing a bed with silver and green hangings, a tall wooden wardrobe, and instead of a desk, a tiny nightstand with a brand-new record player on top. “Let me find the song you like.” Riddle set down the needle in the middle of the record. 

“The grooved rings each indicate a song,” she said helpfully, wondering if he was used to the muggle records, which didn’t have those. “I think ‘Take Me to Heaven’ is number five.”

When the song started playing, they danced slowly and gracefully. It was quite pleasant, but Stateira wanted to do something else besides dance, and she didn’t have the slightest care that they were at Hogwarts. She stopped dancing and kissed Riddle, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Please, my Lord. Take me to bed…” The song played on, now ignored. 

“You know I can’t,” he said softly, but he was pulling her toward the bed. He sat on the edge and held her by the hips as she looked down at him. 

“Well, doesn’t this look familiar,” he teased as he raised his wand and pulled her blouse apart. “Just like you imagined.”

As he planted soft kisses on her torso, she felt his cold fingers trail up her bare inner thigh under her skirt. Her hand slid through his dark, thick hair as the hairs on her arms stood on end and her head tilted back. A small gasp escaped her lips as he pushed two fingers inside of her. The next song started to play, but Stateira could barely hear it over the ringing in her ears. This ringing was a result of pleasure, not anger. After another minute or two, she shut her eyes and cried out as all the stress from the past month and a half was released. 

“Alright, darling?” she heard Riddle ask, but his voice was far away and tinny as sparkles dotted her vision. Her ears rang on and her legs wobbled. Then she was falling, reaching dazedly for him. He let her fall to her knees, pressing his fingers to his mouth, tasting them.

“Do you love me, Stateira?” 

“Yes, of course,” she breathed, grasping his robes, bunching fistfuls of them as she struggled to balance herself. He took her hands and pulled her into a kneeling position. “Of course I love you, my Lord. I will do anything for you. Let me please you…” She reached between his legs, but his hand closed around her wrist. 

“Not now. There will be plenty of time for that later.” He smirked at her. “That was just a taste of what’s to come at the end of term.”

Riddle pulled Stateira toward him and her cheek rested on his chest. As he held her close, she heard the beating of his heart. Her breathing slowed and her eyes grew heavy with contentment. _This, forever._

~**~ ~**~

Alphard had forsaken a beautiful Saturday at Hogsmeade to pass time in the library with Ignatius Prewett, and so far he was not regretting it. With Ignatius, he could be himself. Not a Black, not a Slytherin, but just plain Alphard. Both of the boys loved to read, so they had long discussions on their shared favorite book series, _The Mysterious Origins of Marcellus Grant_. Marcellus Grant was a 16-year-old boy who loved in a factitious land called Apex, controlled rigidly by a Dark Minister. Everyone in Apex worshipped him except for Marcellus Grant. Ignatius and Alphard pointed out all the similarities between the Dark Minister and Grindelwald. There were many, despite _The Mysterious Origin of Marcellus Grant_ preceding Grindelwald’s rule by almost 50 years.

“There’s someone else the Dark Minister resembles,” Alphard said tentatively. 

Ignatius nodded. “The Dark Lord. But he’s just…so very brutal and secretive.”

Alphard lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “I’ve been trying to find out his name. I’ve heard he went to Hogwarts.” That was the most Alphard would disclose. After all, he had to protect Cygnus and Orion the most. 

“Oh, did he? Perhaps we could check the old records and start tracing names. We should start with Slytherins, I reckon.”

“Why?” Alphard asked sharply. 

Ignatius gave a level look, pinning him with his green eyes. “You don’t reckon a Dark wizard came from Slytherin?”

“Not all Slytherins are Dark,” Alphard replied coolly, standing up from the table, “despite what Gryffindors are indoctrinated to believe.”

“Hey, listen, I’m not trying to ruffle your feathers, mate,” Ignatius said, copying Alphard. They stood defiantly, but Ignatius’ voice was free of rancor. “You’ve got to admit, though, that you are an anomaly in your House.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Alphard snarled, not caring if Madam Elspeth threw him out; he was ready to go anyway. 

Ignatius held his hands up pleadingly. “Alphard, please don’t get upset. I’m not saying it’s bad, mate. You think for yourself, I’ve gathered. You want more than the other Slytherins, more than throwing around your family’s money and following some ego-inflated ‘Lord.’” 

Alphard stared, realizing that not only was Ignatius correct, he’d described Cygnus and Orion. He didn’t want to be like them, or Malfoy, or Yaxley, not for one second. Slowly, he nodded, his anger leaving him. 

“Come on,” he muttered. “We’ll check a few names and go take a walk.”

They split up the record years, Ignatius taking 1937-1927, and Alphard, upon request, taking 1938-1948. He sat on the floor, across the row from Ignatius, settled his back against the shelves, and immediately skipped to 1947, the year Cygnus and Orion had finished Hogwarts. Cygnus had said he’s been one of the first followers… Alexander McElroy had graduated a few years prior, and he’d been round the House of Black once or twice. McElroy was dead now, though, and both of his siblings were currently at Hogwarts. No, it wasn’t McElroy…

Then the rest of Cygnus’ statement came to him: _Well, perhaps Lestrange was his first…_ Lestrange and Avery had both graduated before Cygnus sometime. Felix Lestrange was not on the list of 1946, but there he was on the one of 1945, along with James Avery, Victor Mulciber, and Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle, like Alphard, seemed to be the outlier of Slytherin. Alphard turned to the Rs of 1945 and skimmed for the name. 

_TOM RIDDLE (b. 1926)_  
1939-1945  
Half-blood  
Parents: Unknown  
Siblings: None  
Special Achievements:  
Head Boy 1945  
Special Services Award 1943  
Prefect 1942-1944 

Riddle looked very similar in his picture to present. Then again, Alphard thought, 1945 hadn’t been too long ago. _Merlin’s beard, how could I have thought he was a Knight?_ He felt a bit bad for making such assumptions about Professor Riddle simply by his lack of reaction to the Knights’ doings. Alphard himself wasn’t exactly reacting, either. 

For curiosity’s sake, he flipped to 1943, the year Alexander McElroy finished. Dark-haired and handsome like Riddle, McElroy looked more like an arrogant playboy, smirking at the camera. His skin was tanned and smooth, absent of the freckles his siblings had. It was easy to see why people had wanted to listen to him. 

_ALEXANDER MCELROY (b. 1924)_  
1936-1943  
Pureblood  
Parents: Calpurnia Travers, Lochlan McElroy  
Siblings: Stateira (b. 1932), Hollis (b. 1937)  
Special Achievements:  
Quidditch Captain 1941-1943  
Prefect 1941-1943 

Alphard recalled one of the times McElroy had been over his house between his first and second year. All of the older boys—McElroy, Avery, Lestrange, Riddle, Mulciber, and a bloke in McElroy’s year Alphard forgot the name of—had sat in the courtyard while Alphard, Cygnus, Orion, and Stateira had been promptly told to bugger off. Cygnus and Orion heeded the command for all of 10 minutes, not wishing to play with 10 and 11-year-olds, and snuck behind the bushes to listen to the conversation. 

Since Alphard had gotten distracted by a game of Witch Hunt with Stateira, he hadn’t heard a single bit of the older boys’ discussion. Until her grandmother came outside and scolded her for dirtying her dress, dragging the pouting girl inside by a pigtail. Alphard, bored without a playmate, listened to fragments of the conversation. From what he’d gathered, McElroy had hated Dumbledore, “the old coot,” and anyone else who sympathized with muggles. 

“Have you got something?” Ignatius’ sudden voice startled him so much, the record book nearly flew out of his hands. “Alexander McElroy’s dead, mate. No one survives the Kiss for more than a couple of weeks.”

“Damn,” Alphard said softly, looking down at McElroy’s picture. He imagined Cygnus suffering the same fate and his chest grew heavy.

“You’re not feeling sorry for the bloke, are you?” Ignatius asked, shutting the book. “You’re aware that he killed Dumbledore, yeah?”

“Of course,” Alphard said quickly. “I just, erm, I feel a bit bad for his brother and sister is all.”

“Well, I can’t speak of his brother, but his sister is utterly mental.”

Alphard did not want to speak ill of a fellow Slytherin, especially one he’d been friendly with for all seven years of Hogwarts, but he also didn’t want to have another row with Ignatius, either. 

“Come on, let’s take a walk,” he said, returning the record books back to their original places. 

Ignatius followed him out of the library and down the main corridor, where they bumped into Edwina Boot, walking alone and in the opposite direction. “Oh, hello, gentlemen,” she said genially. “Where are you off to? I’ve just come from Hogsmeade.”

“Hello, Edwina,” Alphard greeted. He found it odd that she was without her best friend, Antonia Longbottom; the pair spent almost all free time together. “We’re going for a walk around the grounds.”

To his surprise, a look of discomfort passed over Edwina’s face. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be? I reckon I need a bit of fresh spring air.”

She exchanged a look with Ignatius, who looked similarly apprehensive. 

“Fine, I’ll just go by myself, then,” Alphard muttered, turning away and striding down the corridor. 

“Oh, we’ll join you,” Ignatius said hastily, jogging a few steps to catch up. “Edwina, would you like to come along?” 

“Sure,” Edwina said reluctantly. 

The three of them set off to the grounds. Still seeing the discomfort on Edwina’s face, Alphard tried to engage her in conversation. “Professor Slughorn said he’d written you a letter of recommendation for the Ministry. He’s written me one as well.”

“Yes,” she said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

He didn’t take it personally, knowing the girl was usually painfully shy. “I’m applying for Junior Undersecretary, but I needed two letters, so I asked Riddle for another.”

“Oh,” she replied. “I asked Professor Merrythought.”

“You could’ve asked Riddle, too,” Alphard said, hoping he didn’t sound accusing. “You’re doing very well in that class.”

She smiled at his observation but still didn’t meet his eyes. 

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Alphard looked ahead to the doorway to the grounds and saw Malfoy, Yaxley, and Delmont walking with a dark-haired boy that looked identical to Alphard. Squinting in confusion, Alphard took a few steps closer and realized with shock that he was looking at _himself_. The boy stared back at Alphard with equal horror. 

 

Edwina’s mind came to abrupt halt as the real Alphard advanced toward Antonia-Alphard with an odd expression of revulsion and anger. Ignatius, who appeared to be holding vomit just behind his lips, reached out to clutch Alphard’s arm, but he couldn’t slow him down. The others weren’t yet paying attention, but all they had to do was shift their eyes slightly to the left…

Edwina had to take the only suggestion her frenzied mind offered her, which was to push Alphard directly into their path. Reaching out, she apologized to Alphard nonverbally and shoved his back as hard as she could. He collided with Malfoy, and in the ensuing ruckus, Edwina grabbed Antonia-Alphard’s arm and pulled her back down the corridor.

“What in the bloody hell was that about, Black?” Malfoy snapped as Edwina, Ignatius, and Antonia-Alphard, who was now thankfully looking more like Antonia, trotted down the corridor. Antonia’s black hair lightened and a bun sprouted on her head as she shrunk a few inches, taking back her figure. 

Alphard muttered an apology and Edwina turned around to catch a glimpse. He was glaring furiously at Ignatius, who looked to be in pain. 

Once they’d gotten to Merrythought’s empty classroom, they locked themselves in, cast _Muffliato_ , and waited for Antonia to relay what she’d learned. Ignatius looked on the verge of tears, so Edwina placed a hand tentatively on his shoulder. 

“Ignatius, why don’t you find Alphard and explain…?” 

“Explain what?” Ignatius rasped. “That I spied on him? That I lied to him just as he began to trust me? I should’ve never agreed to this!”

Antonia looked to Edwina in outrage, but Edwina kept her face still. 

“What do you mean, you shouldn’t have agreed?” Antonia demanded. “Are you keen on stopping these attacks or what?” 

“Antonia,” said Edwina warningly. 

Ignatius’ fury matched Alphard’s in the corridor. “And did you find out how to stop them, Antonia? Or did you ruin my friendship for nothing?”

“Oh, now you have a problem,” Antonia bellowed. “You were all for this when I introduced it! I’ll have you know, Alphard’s brother and cousin are Knights! Malfoy and Yaxley worship them almost as much as they do the Dark Lord.”

“So Alphard’s brother and cousin are behind the attacks, then?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Antonia admitted. “They didn’t speak explicitly about the Knights. I sensed that the others are slightly distrusting of Alphard, for they didn’t speak very freely around him. Every time Yaxley mentioned the Dark Lord, for example, Malfoy would nudge him and glance at Alphard.”

“Well, that’s just swell!” Ignatius burst out, throwing his hands up. “All that trouble for irrelevant rubbish! Great plan, Longbottom!”

“It’s not irrelevant rubbish, Prewett!” Antonia hissed, but Ignatius had already turned his back and walked away. As the door slammed behind him, Antonia covered her face with her hands. 

“Did—did they say anything else?” Edwina asked hesitantly, unsure if she should comfort the other girl or not. 

Antonia’s chest heaved and a tired sigh rushed through her fingers. “Not a damn thing. Ninety percent of the conversation was Malfoy prattling on about Stateira McElroy.”

“He really fancies her, I reckon.”

“Mhmm. I wish I could’ve told him about her affair with Riddle, but I know I’m not to speak of it.”

“Yes, please don’t,” Edwina told her. “We don’t know if it’s even true.” Edwina knew it was true, however, as evidenced by witnessing a couple of sly glances exchanged between Stateira and Riddle in Defense when everyone was occupied with practical. If they’d paused whatever they’d been doing earlier in the year, it was back on now. 

“Goddamn it,” Antonia moaned. “I’ve not a single clue what to do next.” 

“We’ll think of something…”

“But time is running out! If the attacks really are connected to a student at Hogwarts, we can only imagine how many there will be over the summer.”

The two witches stood facing each other, both lost in their own worries. Edwina had to get on with Head Duties, but Antonia looked on the verge of crying, so she waited patiently until the girl came back down to Earth.

~**~ ~**~

30 May 1949: Officially the Best Day of Edwina Boot’s Life, starting at nine in the morning sharp, when the post came with a crisp white envelope from the Ministry:

 _Auror Division_  
Department of Magical Law Enforcement  
Ministry of Magic

_Dear Edwina Boot:_

_Thank you for your interest in the Auror Training Program at the Ministry of Magic. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the prestigious program. Please reply promptly to get started on the admission process. Good luck!_

_Sincerely,_  
Lysandra Bell  
Head Auror 

“Edwina!” A voice cut into her blind amazement, bringing her back to reality. Achilles sat across and one down to the right of her. He, too, was holding a white envelope. “Auror Training—have you been accepted?” 

“Yes!” she burst out, and they exchanged looks of glee. 

“Oh, my goodness!” Antonia exclaimed. “You’ve both gotten accepted into Training? Achilles, let me see the letter!”

He was too shocked to respond, so she tugged it out of his hands. 

“I’ve got to write to Dad and Callista,” Edwina said, clutching the letter to her chest and standing up. Both Longbottoms were too absorbed in Achilles’ letter to notice her. 

As she reached the door to the Great Hall, Edwina ran into Stateira McElroy, who, bizarrely, had the same white envelope and awe-struck expression as Edwina. 

“Edwina!” she cried, holding up her letter. “Have you gotten the same—?” 

Abandoning their surroundings, the two held their letters together to compare. To Edwina’s complete surprise, the only difference in Stateira’s letter was that it was addressed to Stateira. 

“You—you—want to be an _Auror?”_ Edwina blurted, cringing inwardly at how shocked her voice came out. 

Stateira’s face went blank and she pulled her letter away. “Ever the tone of surprise, Boot. What do you think I’ve been _doing_ with Professor Riddle? Extra Defense lessons, of course.”

Edwina gaped at her stupidly. “I—listen. I’m sorry. It was wrong to assume.” Without thinking, she took Stateira’s hand in hers. “I don’t want to have a row. Congratulations, Stateira. Really.”

Again Edwina was taken by total surprise when Stateira tightened her fingers around Edwina’s and smiled. “Congratulations as well, Edwina. Friends?” 

They shook hands, and Edwina was too astonished to notice that Achilles had appeared beside them.

“Oh, Stateira, you’ve gotten into Training as well?” he asked happily without any traces of wonder. “I reckon we’re the only three.”

“Are we?” Stateira asked, looking pleased and excited. She peered down at her letter fondly. 

“Yes. I’m not surprised you’re the third. You’re certainly the best in Defense.”

Flattered, Stateira’s cheeks turned pink. “The pair of you are not far behind.”

“Well, congratulations, ladies,” Achilles said, trotting off to Ravenclaw Tower. Edwina followed until she turned back and realized Stateira was still standing by the Great Hall. 

“Aren’t you going to send a letter?”

“Not now,” Stateira called over her shoulder, walking toward the left-wing corridor to the dungeons. 

Edwina looked back ruefully, feeling a bit bad that Stateira wasn’t concerned about telling her family such news, or perhaps her family was not concerned with her? Edwina’s own father would be happy to hear it, even if he was in the throes of the blues again. 

She smiled, thinking of the rare grin that would cross her dad’s face, even if only for a second. Between that, her acceptance into Training, and the rekindled friendship with Stateira, things were finally looking brighter. 

 

No, Stateira knew of only one person that would be pleased with her acceptance into Auror Training, and he wasn’t related to her. Unfortunately, she could not tell him right away, as he had a class at 9:45, which luckily, she remembered before bursting into the classroom. 

After her rounds that night, the time had finally come to deliver the news she hoped would secure her position at the Dark Lord’s side. Once she’d crept into the Defense classroom and ensured that it was empty save for Riddle, she locked the door and cast the spell to block out any noise. _“Muffliato!”_

At the sound of her voice, the door to the office opened and light spilled out. “Enter, Miss McElroy,” Riddle called. 

Stateira waltzed in with a smug smile on her face, shutting the door behind her. 

“Eager for our lesson, are you? You’re two days early.”

“I’ve been accepted,” she said with a tinge of arrogance, setting down the letter on his desk. 

He read it quickly and gave her a look of triumph similar to her own. “Well, well, well, so you’ve done it. Congratulations, darling.”

“Thank you,” Stateira said, “and thank you for all of your guidance, Professor.”

His eyes caught hers, and automatically, her shield went up. She did not want him to see the friendly exchange between her and Longbottom, for fear it would upset him. In hindsight, it would have been better to simply let him see it immediately. 

“You’re blocking me again,” he said dangerously. Before she had time to open her mind, he was clawing his way in, pulling up the memory from the morning in the Great Hall. 

Then Riddle was in front of her, pushing her down into the chair in front of his desk and grabbing her chin, his fingertips digging into her cheeks. “Do not try to keep anything from Lord Voldemort,” he hissed in her ear. “You know you will always fail. Or have I underestimated your devotion and intelligence?”

Eyes filling with tears, Stateira shook her head against the hold he had on her face. 

“No?” He released her and stood straight, glowering down at her. 

“No, my Lord,” she choked out, hastily wiping the tear that had leaked out and pooled under her eye. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hide anything from you. I won’t ever do it again.”

This was the right combination of words; he smiled, took her hand, and tugged her into a standing position. Holding her around the waist, he leaned in and spoke softly. “You did well to keep the peace with the others. This will help you at the Ministry.”

Stateira glowed with pride at Riddle’s satisfaction, but she still felt awful about angering him. She only wanted to please him. 

“Remember your vow, darling,” he said, pushing her hair off her face and caressing the cheek he’d just grabbed. “And remember, no one, not them, not anyone, will love you like I love you.”

A feverish sensation spread across her at those words, and she closed her eyes, willing his lips to touch hers. They did, and his hands pulled apart her blouse. As he took it off and guided her to the bed, she held his eyes. _I love you, I adore you_ , she said in her head, too shy to speak out loud. 

“Say it,” Riddle commanded as he pushed her gently on the bed. 

“I love you, my Lord. I adore you!” she cried as he leaned over, slipping his hand under her skirt. Her nails dug into his back as the pleasant ringing started in her ears.

~**~ ~**~

On the Friday before NEWTs, the original members of the DA met for the last time. Over the spring term, four members had been added to the group: two Gryffindors, Lyall Lupin and Martha Greely, a Ravenclaw named Rudy Graham, and Minerva McGonagall’s best friend, Pomona Sprout. Professor Merrythought had sprung for treacle tarts and butterbeer. There was a rare, festive air in the classroom. There hadn’t been a muggle attack in over three weeks; the Knights seemed to be slowing down.

“Good evening, everyone,” Antonia announced, standing tall at the front of the room. Merrythought had told her she was a natural leader, which had made her glow with pride. “Tonight is the last meeting at Hogwarts for the DA’s four seventh-years. Edwina and Achilles have both gotten into Auror Training.” Everyone clapped and smiled approvingly at the pair. 

“And Ignatius Prewett has gotten into the Muggle Liason Office,” Antonia continued, looking around the room, an expression of confusion forming on her face. “Where is Ignatius?”

Everyone else looked around except for Bruin Weasley, who kept his eyes straight ahead. 

“Do you think he’s done a bunk?” Minerva asked worriedly. “He’s not going to tell anyone about the DA, will he?” 

“I doubt it,” Bruin piped up. “We, erm, got into a bit of a row…”

“Over what?” Antonia demanded. She had little patience for personal matters interfering with her plans. 

“About that Slytherin, Alphard Black,” Bruin answered. “Why are they so chummy all of the sudden?”

“Bruin, Alphard Black is Head Boy,” Achilles said reasonably. “Headmaster Dippet would not give the title to someone unfit.”

“That’s because the headmaster is mostly influenced by Riddle, and Black’s his top student. You even said that yourself, Achilles.”

“Professor Riddle was Head Boy, too,” Edwina said softly, turning to the boys. “Remember, in our third year?”

“Correct, Edwina,” Merrythought said. Before Bruin could open his mouth, she continued, “Let’s not speak ill of other students. I would like to keep this meeting lighthearted. 

Antonia, deep in thought, didn’t hear her. “I thought McElroy was his top student.”

“Oh, she is, but she and Alphard are pretty close,” Achilles said casually before adding, “I’m not too far behind.”

Antonia rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know, _Auror._ ”

“Are they talking about Hollis’ sister?” Fleamont asked Minerva.

“Yes, we are,” Antonia told him, casting another glance around the room. “Where is he, anyway?”

“His father took him home already,” Edwina told her. “You don’t remember him saying that at supper?” 

“No, Edwina, I was preoccupied with exams,” Antonia replied tartly. 

“Wait until next year,” Achilles grumbled, exchanging a sour look with Bruin. “NEWTs are no walk in the park.”

“What use does McElroy have for Defense anyway?” Antonia wondered without thinking. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she ran off after graduation to join the Dark Lord.”

“Enough,” Achilles snapped. “Don’t make those assumptions about her.”

“Taken a fancy to her, have you?” his sister shot back, making him turn red. 

Before she could think twice, Edwina stood up and glared at Antonia. “She’s been accepted into Auror Training as well.”

Antonia, along with Merrythought behind her—although much less blatantly—gaped at Edwina. Then Antonia turned her questioning gaze on Achilles, as if to confirm that Edwina was pulling her leg. Achilles simply nodded and said, “Yes. She showed us her letter.”

Antonia’s mood, dampened even further about the thought of working with Stateira McElroy, stifled the air but not so much as to spoil the party. Eventually, they got onto the topic of holiday plans, which fortunately was a happy one for all. 

As everyone chatted excitedly, munching on treacle tarts and slurping on butterbeer, Antonia looked around the room, thinking hard. She had only one more year to build her creation, the DA, and ensure it would carry on after that without her. 

 

Tom was seated at his desk, reflecting fondly on his success. The Knights were as strong as ever. Abraxas Malfoy and his father were doting on him, along with the Black cousins. The first goal was to station a Knight in every important branch of the Ministry. The Malfoys had the Magical Education Department, Cygnus Black as Head of the International Confederation, and Alphard Black—not yet a Knight, but there was plenty of time—practically guaranteed as Junior Undersecretary to the Minister. There was only the Wizongamot left, and he supposed a few Healers wouldn’t hurt either, but that would have to come the next round. 

And just as important as any Knight, his Auror, who was currently asleep in his bed after being teased and ravished. Old Grindelwald had been right after all: there wasn’t any stronger devotion than love from an impressionable, unstable girl. Poor little Stateira, standing alone at the seventh-year farewell ceremony. No wonder the girl had rushed to his office after it was over, begging for his affections. They were quite easy to give, considering he felt nothing for her. 

Not to say she wasn’t appealing; she was, especially when she tried so hard to win his approval. Hers was true worship now, and her chance to be useful was approaching. An Auror was an invaluable asset, and an Auror in the shape of a doll he could bend—physically and mentally—to his will was an unprecedented bonus. 

The Ministry, Hogwarts, and his bedroom were just about covered. Next was going to be Gringott’s and Azkaban with a couple of side ventures, such as precious object-hunting and gathering non-human followers. 

Yes, the next couple of years were going to be busy, and by the end, Lord Voldemort would sit at the top where he belonged.

~**~ ~**~


	9. Summer 1949

Alphard had not been enjoying his summer thus far. Only a week had passed, and already he’d thought about running away, but there was only one option that wasn’t any type of improvement. 

The previous month, while Alphard finished up his Hogwarts education, Irma and Pollux Black had bought a manor in Wiltshire, similar to the Malfoys’ and Lestranges.’ Number 12 Grimmauld Place was given to Walburga, the eldest, which she shared with Orion and, for the time being, Cygnus and Druella. Why Cygnus chose to stay there when he could easily buy his own manor was a mystery to Alphard. 

They visited the Black Manor every Sunday for supper, along with the Malfoys and Lestranges. This Sunday was a special occasion—Alphard’s and Druella’s graduation—so the Avery, Mulciber, and Yaxley families were attending as well. Cygnus’ and Orion’s marriages hadn’t changed much: the boys still drank and prepared to leave the girls at the table to gather in Cygnus’ room. Alphard debated whether he should attempt to join, not really wanting to, but as it turned out, he wasn’t given a choice. His brother took his arm and wordlessly pulled him away from the table. 

“Follow me and don’t say a word to any of the others,” Cygnus hissed in his ear. 

They crept upstairs, past their rooms, to Aunt Dorea’s, where Cygnus pushed Alphard inside and shut the door. _“Muffliato! Colloportus!”_

“What’s going on, Cygnus?” Alphard asked apprehensively. “Is something—"

Cygnus thrust an envelope into his palm. Perplexed, Alphard turned it over. 

_Alphard Black,_ it simply said. The handwriting was neat and vaguely familiar, but Alphard couldn’t place it. He opened the envelope and read:

_Dear Alphard,_

_At your earliest convenience, please kindly fetch Stateira McElroy from the front of 127 Irvington Alley in Lambeth and Apparate her to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Thank you._

It wasn’t signed. “What in the…?” Alphard muttered, his stomach starting to harden in dread. “Who wrote this?” 

Cygnus stood in front of him with his arms folded. “The Dark Lord has sent it.”

“ _What?_ What on Earth does _he_ want with her?” 

His brother’s dark eyebrows raised. “Taken a fancy to her, have you?” 

“No,” Alphard snapped. “I—why me? You’re the Knight.”

Cygnus shrugged. “I reckon since she knows you well, she’ll come easily. And if I fetch her…” He leaned in and grinned. “I’ll probably take her to bed first.”

Alphard rolled his eyes. “When do you reckon I should go? Mum will have a cow if I leave now.”

“Alphard, this is an order from _the Dark Lord_. You cannot keep him waiting. Go _now_. I’ll head Mum off.” He snatched the paper from Alphard’s hands. “Do you remember the address?” 

“Yes, 127 Irvington Alley, Lambeth.”

Cygnus placed the parchment on the desk and pointed his wand at it. _“Incendio.”_

Alphard was frozen for a moment, watching the flames until his brother shoved him hard on the shoulder. “Go!”

Before he could form another thought, he Disapparated with a crack and landed in a damp alleyway. Sirens blared somewhere in the distance, and two men stood at the entrance of the alley, shouting at each other. 

Rubbish was strewn everywhere, and Alphard could hear the low wailing of a cat’s mating call. It took him a few moments before he could step forward; he’d never been in a place like this before. Feeling slightly sick, Alphard approached the two muggle men, keeping his hand on his wand, prepared to Stun if necessary. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and nonchalant, “but can you please direct me to Irvington Alley?” 

The two muggles gawked at him Alphard felt very foolish as they took in his robes. He hadn’t any muggle clothing, and he didn’t even want to imagine his parents’ reaction if they found out he owned any. 

“S’over there, chap,” one finally said, pointing behind Alphard. “Is that there your girlfriend? Mighty nice she looks. Blimey!” 

Alphard turned around and saw Stateira standing on the pavement, casually tapping her high-heeled foot. She looked rather like a magazine model, primped and polished in a silk dress and gloves. She was so out of place in that dark alley, she looked almost like a mirage. Her face, however, let slip an expression of excitement mixed with apprehension. 

“Lucky sod,” one muggle muttered to the other as Alphard approached her, their argument temporarily forgotten. 

“Good evening, Stateira,” Alphard said quietly, hoping not to startle her. His approach didn’t work—she jumped, eyes wide. 

“Oh, good evening, Alphard.” A warm smile spread across her face and Alphard, who had only ever had friendly fondness toward her, was slightly mesmerized. The girl looked almost the same as she had in the past year, but her confidence propelled her attractiveness. “Forgive me; I’ve been a bit jumpy lately.” 

“I can imagine,” he blurted honestly, remembering that he was fetching her for the Dark Lord. What on Earth did he want with her and why was she dressed like a film star for the occasion? “Shall we?”

Alphard held out his arm, she took it with a gloved hand, and they ducked into another rubbish-filled alley around the block. “You know where we’re going, correct?” 

“Correct,” she replied, letting go of his arm and taking his hand. They Apparated to the hallway of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

The chandelier flicked on, illuminating the ornate decorations and portraits. Stateira was looking around in awe, never having been anywhere in the house besides the dining hall. Now she was the one in new territory. 

Heavy footsteps crashed down on the stairs and Cygnus appeared in robes that were plain black, but Alphard knew they’d been the most expensive in Twilfitt and Tatting’s. His brother always liked the best things. 

“My, have you certainly grown into a beauty,” Cygnus said without preamble to Stateira, bringing forth an intense pink blush on her cheeks. 

“Thank you,” she said shyly, looking down at her shoes. 

“Come, let me take you to the parlor. I’ll tell Walburga’s elf to make you some tea. Do you remember the last time you were here? You were fairly young.”

“Oh yes, it was in ’43,” she said before turning and beaming at Alphard. “Remember our game of Witch Hunt? That was quite a lot of fun.”

Alphard wanted to smile back, but the rankled look on his brother’s face stopped him. Cygnus held out his hand, reclaiming her attention. “The house has not changed much. Shall we proceed to the parlor?” 

Stateira took his hand and Alphard, unsure of what to do, followed them down the hall. He wondered if he should leave, not necessarily feeling welcome but not wanting to leave Stateira alone with Cygnus while he was buzzed, either. 

“I believe you’re acquainted with my wife, Druella?” 

Alphard saw with relief that Walburga and Druella were present, although neither of them looked happy to see Stateira. Their presence meant that the party at the Black Manor was nearly complete, and none had noticed Alphard’s absence. 

“Yes, I do,” Stateira replied. “It is wonderful to see you outside of Hogwarts, Druella.”

“And you as well, Stateira,” Druella responded in a high, simpering voice. “Please take a seat. Kreacher is preparing you a cup of tea.”

“Stateira, you remember my sister, Walburga,” Alphard said hastily, noticing his sister’s eyes narrowing at the girl in dislike. “She finished Hogwarts in ’44.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Stateira smiled at Walburga, but Walburga did not reciprocate or soften her expression. 

“You’re McElroy’s sister,” she said. “He was a year above me.”

Stateira nodded, unsure if Walburga was asking her a question. “Yes.”

There was an awkward pause as the girls remained seated around the little round table, the boys standing behind them. Cygnus was behind his wife while Alphard had Stateira, standing over her somewhat protectively. His eyes wandered to a pin in her light brown hair, ready to spring loose. Perhaps he should tuck it in, knowing the blasted thing was likely to shoot him in the eye with his luck. 

Kreacher entered holding a teacup and saucer. He extended it to Stateira, avoiding eye contact. “Thank you,” she told it as she took the saucer. 

Kreacher’s watery blue eyes widened as everyone in the room stared at Stateira, appalled. Unfortunately, the fact that she was in a dramatically different social class was made crystal clear by those two words. This was evidently the first time she’d ever interacted with a house elf. 

“Where’s Orion?” Alphard asked, hoping to diffuse some of the tension. 

Walburga rolled her eyes and made a face of contempt. “Still pissed somewhere at Mum’s, obviously.”

“Goodness, he’d better come back soon!” Druella exclaimed, her dainty hands flying to her mouth, though it was apparent she didn’t really care. 

Walburga waved her hand dismissively. “Honestly, I don’t care where that tosser stays as long as it’s far away from me.”

Stateira was getting antsy, most likely wondering why she’d been instructed from the Dark Lord to have tea with the Black girls, who clearly hadn’t been expecting her, either. 

“Druella, be a doll and show Stateira where she’ll be sleeping,” Cygnus said. 

“Sleeping?” Stateira echoed, her eyebrows joining in confusion. 

“Yes, dear. It’ll be a bit before he comes,” he told her, his emphasis on _he_ implying the Dark Lord. 

“Er…alright.”

She and Druella stood, but Walburga abruptly jumped up, saying, “I’ll show her. Druella, love, you take a seat and rest.”

Without waiting for anyone’s response, she clasped Stateira’s hand and pulled her out of the room. Stateira shot Alphard a helpless look before she disappeared from view, but Alphard was not about to irritate Walburga, a feat he often accomplished without trying. 

Alphard left Cygnus and Druella and wandered into the kitchen, tense and eager now that the Dark Lord was due to arrive, though it was doubtful Alphard would be allowed to catch any glimpses of him. Bored, he re-entered the parlor, where husband and wife sat in silence, not looking at each other. 

When Walburga and Stateira came back, Alphard noticed with unease that his sister strode triumphantly, while Stateira’s cheeks had an angry flush. She seemed to be fighting back tears, and Alphard felt a surge of disgust at Walburga for being so rude and insufferable all the time. 

A loud crack came from the hallway and men’s voices growled, chastising each other. 

“Goddamn it, Mulciber, watch where you’re going!”

“Sod off and get your bloody foot off my robes! These are brand new!”

Cygnus left the parlor and met them at the end of the hallway. “Into the dining hall!” he hissed. “Stop wasting time; he’ll be here any moment!”

CRACK! Abraxas Malfoy appeared in front of the entrance to the parlor, swaying into the doorframe slightly. 

“Are you _still_ pissed, Malfoy?” Cygnus bellowed. “Where the hell is Orion?”

“Hell if I know,” Malfoy replied unconcernedly. 

“For Merlin’s sake! Do not tell me I have to drag his arse—!”

CRACK! Yaxley and Lestrange appeared as if on cue, holding Orion steady between them. Another series of cracks rang out as Alphard and the girls remained in the parlor, listening and craning their necks. 

“Alright, you lot’s got to get in the— _Yaxley, what in the bloody hell are you doing?”_

There was a bang and a yelp as the others snickered in amusement.

Once Cygnus had ushered them all in the dining hall, the door slammed shut and a beat of silence passed before Stateira asked, “What in the name of Merlin’s going on? Some type of meeting?” 

Alphard nodded grimly. “The Dark Lord has summoned his Knights. They often meet here.”

“Yes, thanks to Cygnus,” Walburga added contemptuously. “Even though this is _my _sodding house now.”__

__Stateira was watching Alphard, appraising him as she toyed with a white lace handkerchief. “How come you’re not a Knight?”_ _

__“I haven’t decided—"_ _

__“Good evening,” a voice said from the entry, and they all started, unaware anyone was outside the dining hall._ _

__Professor Riddle leaned against the frame, looking as relaxed as if he was about to begin a lesson at Hogwarts. Disregarding the other three, he held out his hand to Stateira. “Miss McElroy, please join us in the dining hall.”_ _

__The look on Stateira’s face spoke volumes: Alphard could see at once that she was head over heels in love with Riddle. “Yes, of course,” she breathed, rising immediately and taking his hand. He placed his other hand on the small of her back and led her away, leaving three astonished gazes in their wake._ _

“What in the _hell?”_ Walburga burst out a moment later. “What does the Dark Lord plan on doing with _her?”_

__“Well, she is rather intelligent,” Druella replied begrudgingly. “I suppose he’s got some use for her.” She grinned snidely. “Perhaps he needs a mistress.”_ _

__“No, she’s clearly keen on that Riddle. He’s brilliant, yes, but if the Dark Lord aims to purify our race, what’s he doing recruiting skint broads and half-bloods?”_ _

Alphard was too dazed to think of a rebuttal to her nasty words. Not only was Riddle evidently a Knight, but so was _Stateira_ —how? Had she killed someone, too? _No_ , his first instinct was to say, but then again, there was the Weasley Weasel Incident almost two years prior. If Merrythought hadn’t stopped her… 

__This was getting worse and worse. He sighed, set down his full cup of tea, and stood, ready to Disapparate home, away from that dreadful meeting._ _

__

__Riddle was at the head of the table, the opposite side empty by default. Stateira, the only female, was seated to his immediate right, Abraxas Malfoy reeking of mead on her other side. Across from them sat a few older boys she recognized from Hogwarts: Felix Lestrange, Victor Mulciber, James Avery, and an obviously inebriated Orion Black, Alphard’s cousin._ _

__“Cygnus,” said Riddle. “Have your elf bring glasses of firewhiskey to everyone except Abraxas and Orion.”_ _

__Orion’s face tinged and Abraxas shifted uncomfortably, both keeping their eyes on the table, not daring to challenge an order from the Dark Lord._ _

__“Of course, my Lord,” Cygnus said, rising from the table. He snapped his fingers and Kreacher appeared. In hushed tones, he commanded the house elf to bring nine glasses of firewhiskey._ _

__“Tonight, we celebrate the induction of four Knights who have proved themselves worthy of being at the forefront of the movement.”_ _

__Kreacher reappeared, balancing a tray of several glasses filled with ice and brown liquid. With a lazy flick of his wand, Riddle sent the drinks whizzing toward the table. Each landed in front of a Knight except for Abraxas and Orion._ _

__“Oh, alright, Abraxas, you may have one,” Riddle said impassively. Before Cygnus could snap his fingers again, Stateira pushed her glass to the left, in front of Abraxas. The room was excruciatingly silent, all eyes on her, and her face flushed heavily. She feared she made a grave mistake._ _

__“How very kind of you, Stateira. Are you sure you’re not thirsty?”_ _

__She sat straighter and shook her head, confidence regained now that she knew she wouldn’t be reprimanded. “I am not, my Lord.”_ _

__The others still stared for another moment, but apparently, the status quo was to keep their eyes on the table, as all ten pairs of eyes snapped back to it at once._ _

__“In the Magical Education Department at the Ministry, we’ll have Abraxas Malfoy, following the path of his dear father. Icarus Yaxley will be working his way up the Wizongamot, pushing to implement new laws that will place stricter limitations on muggle-wizard relations. Sequitur Delmont possesses above-average skill of the Imperius Curse, which will prove to be useful in a multitude of operations.”_ _

__Delmont, ever the pompous of the group, inclined his head, a smile of pride breaking through his lips._ _

__“And last but certainly not least, Stateira McElroy will be our inside man—or lady, of course—inside the Auror Office.”_ _

Ignoring the others, Stateira raised her eyes to meet his, keeping her head down and face blank. _I love you,_ she said to him in her head. 

__Riddle raised his glass and they all toasted while Stateira and Orion kept their hands folded in their laps._ _

__“What do you lot suppose,” Riddle said after they’d all set their glasses down. “Shall we give the mudbloods and muggles a summer holiday?”_ _

__“No, sir!” Abraxas burst out, causing some of the others to chuckle and cast him approving glances. Stateira smiled weakly, feeling very out of place despite Riddle’s praise. She was in a room full of men, after all, and some of the older boys, mainly Cygnus Black and Felix Lestrange, were surreptitiously glancing at her out of the sides of their eyes, no doubt wondering if she belonged there. However, the Dark Lord thought she belonged there, so their opinions didn’t matter._ _

“Ah, but not so fast,” Riddle said, holding up a hand and turning to Yaxley. “Icarus here has still not completed his task. Normally I would not allow him to continue with us, but I trust that he will carry out his task _as soon as possible,_ correct, Icarus?” 

__“Yes, my Lord,” Yaxley responded, nodding deferentially._ _

__After another round of firewhiskey, they discussed a vague plan about werewolves that Stateira didn’t quite grasp, but since Mulciber seemed to be on the forefront of it, she didn’t concern herself with it._ _

__The last topic was Alphard and his reluctance to join the Knights. “Cygnus, I expect you to be a bit more persuasive, especially since he’d got a good chance of becoming Junior Undersecretary. Perhaps now he’ll be easier to influence without that Prewett hanging around. We can’t deny that the more Knights we have in the Ministry, the stronger and faster we will be.”_ _

__“Yes, my Lord,” said Cygnus with the same enthusiasm as Yaxley, even though they’d both been reprimanded. “I will place my utmost efforts in recruiting him.”_ _

__“I hope so. Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure. Keep an ear out for the next meeting time. I am currently developing a more reliable method of communication than owls.”_ _

__There were murmurs of “Goodnight, my Lord,” as the group rose from the table and filed out of the dining hall. As Stateira trailed behind Malfoy, she felt hands around her hips, pulling her back. “Let them go,” Riddle whispered in her ear, and excitement immediately spread throughout her body._ _

__Malfoy, the last one out, turned and gave them an oddly wistful look before he left. Hand in hand, Stateira and Riddle walked down the hall, passing the parlor where the others sat watching. Smirking, she flung a lock of hair over her shoulder and added a slight strut to her steps. The portraits in the stairwell were muttering curiously about the two non-descendants, ignored by both._ _

__“In which room are you staying?”_ _

__“That one there.” She pointed to the last door at the end of the hall._ _

__The sight of the room, one of the grandest she’d ever occupy, only filled her with sorrow. When she first saw the beautiful flowered wallpaper, large bed adorned in lavender silk sheets, and a vanity made of gold and cherrywood, her breath had escaped her. Never had she slept in such luxurious conditions, and she had looked forward it immensely until Walburga had grabbed her wrist while showing her to the room._ _

__“Don’t think we don’t know what you’re all about, little girl,” the older witch had hissed._ _

__“I beg your pardon?”_ _

__“You heard me. Druella told me all about you, how you seduce men, how desperate you are for attention. My brothers may be fond of you, but to me, you’re nothing but a slag.”_ _

__Walburga had shoved Stateira’s wrist away and stalked out before Stateira could even think to respond. Normally her tongue was sharp, but this time it had failed her._ _

__Now she was no longer looking forward to sleeping anywhere in Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Not bothering to push it out of her mind, she withdrew from Riddle and let out a small sigh._ _

__“Do not worry about Walburga,” he told her once the memory had faded. “She is envious of you because you soar ahead of her in every aspect. She is nothing, Stateira.”_ _

__She gave an unconvincing nod as he stepped closer, took her in his arms, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Every one of my Knights desires you. But they can’t have you, because you’re mine. How beautiful you are, seated at my right hand, right where you belong.”_ _

__His hand gripped the back of her head and he pressed his mouth hard against hers, smearing her lipstick. She was forced to step backward until her rear hit the vanity. He was quite forceful, ripping open the top of her dress and yanking up the hem._ _

__“I’ve always debated whether to take you on the desk in my classroom,” Riddle hissed as he pulled down her knickers. “Perhaps I will on your desk at the Auror Office.”_ _

__Despite her erratic heartbeat from how fast they were moving, Stateira let out a giggle, blushing. “Yes, please do, my Lord.”_ _

__However, they soon found out that making love on a flat surface was not nearly as enjoyable as it was in a fantasy, so they moved from the vanity to the bed. When they’d finished, Stateira threw her arms around Riddle and buried her face in his neck, as she usually did, and he tensed up for a moment, as he usually did, still after all this time._ _

__“You’re not used to intimacy,” she mumbled, delirious with heat and exhaustion after such an intense climax._ _

__“No,” Riddle replied. “That I am not.”_ _

She stared at the mural on the ceiling of puffy clouds dotted with winged cherubs against a brilliant blue sky. The cherubs respectfully had their eyes closed, trying not to invade privacy. _Of course he isn’t used to intimacy_ , Stateira thought. _He hasn’t a mother_. What on Earth was it like not to be ever held by a mother? Even Calpurnia had given her fair share of hugs and caresses when her children were small. 

__Riddle gently pushed her away and stood up, buttoning his shirt._ _

__“Profess—my Lord, won’t you stay the night?” Stateira asked, sitting up and holding the sheet over her chest._ _

__“I can’t; I’ve got to go.” With his back to her, he put on his robe and ran a hand carelessly through his hair. A ball of dread was forming in her stomach. What was she playing at, thinking about his absent mother?_ _

__“My Lord, you’re—you’re not…angry with me?” she asked tentatively, bunching the purple silk into her sweaty palms._ _

__“No, of course not.” Riddle finally looked down at her, expressionless, and cupped her chin in his hand. “You’re a keen observer, Stateira, which is a wonderful asset. However, you would do well to observe your colleagues, not me.”_ _

__He kissed her on the cheek and Disapparated without waiting for a response._ _

__Lying back on the bed, she sprawled herself out and heaved a large sigh. At least he wasn’t angry with her. She loved him more than anything else; she couldn’t bear his anger or disappointment._ _

____

~**~ ~**~

By mid-August, Stateira was positively sure she was about to go mad. Gran seemingly cared nothing about Auror Training and was as insistent as ever that she find a suitable, preferably rich husband to restore honor to the Travers name after “Calpurnia’s descent into disgrace.” All the talk of her disgrace sure didn’t motivate Calpurnia to rise from bed anymore, whereas in the spring she’d started walking around and even holding small conversations. That all ground to a halt, and Stateira wondered bitterly why she’d bothered to return to the flat, though she had nowhere else to go.

Worse yet, there had not been a single letter or summon by the Dark Lord. He’d left her wondering if he held no meetings at all or if she was now excluded. _Really bloody spectacular work, lass_ , she scolded herself, _meddling in things you’ve no right to know about_. She was reduced to writing more unsent letters, which took on a more frantic, angry tone:

 _15 August 1949_  
_Dear Professor Riddle_

Oh, but he was no longer her professor, now that she’d finished Hogwarts. What had he said? _At Hogwarts I am your professor…outside the castle, I am your Lord and master._ She glided the tip of her wand over the words, erasing them. 

_Dear Lord Voldemort,_

_I implore you to keep me under your wing and train me as your Knight. There is nothing I want more than to bow down and serve you. I vowed to be loyal to you and I plan to keep that vow until my dying breath. Please collect me from here and use this loyalty in any way you wish. I wish to serve you in mind, body, and soul._

_Yours truly,_  
_Always and forever,_  
_Stateira McElroy_

She glared down at the letter, knuckle clasped between her teeth. It immediately started bleeding and she’d run out of essence of murtlap. She’d have to wait until the Hogwarts fund came in to buy more in Diagon Alley. What a miserable situation—utterly skint and left to rot in the stifling city heat of Muggle London. At least Auror Training started in exactly one month, September 15, but unlike Hogwarts, it wouldn’t take her away and fully immerse her. 

There was a loud crash in the kitchen, followed by shattering glass and Gran bellowing, “YOU OLD COCK!” Stateira jumped up and ran out of the room to see Maisie flapping around the kitchen, squawking, as Gran bat her with a broom.

“Goodness gracious!” Stateira cried, seizing the broom out of her hands and shoving it under the dining table. “What’s happened?”

Gran pointed her wand at Maisie, but the owl gave a loud, reproachful hoot and flew out of the kitchen window. “Broke my finest glass vase, she did,” she panted. “Don’t think it’ll fix… _Reparo!”_

The shatters came together to reform the vase, but it was cracked and oddly misshapen. “Bloody old owl,” Gran muttered as she levitated it back on the top of the cabinet. Then she pointed to the floor near the back door. “Well, you’ve got a letter at any rate.” 

Heart lifting with hope, Stateira picked it up and inspected it. The return address in Ireland was familiar—the Blood Traitor’s. With a dejected sigh, she tore open the letter and took a seat at the table while Gran continued cooking. 

_Dear Stateira,_

_I hope everyone is doing well in London. Hollis has told me you’ve gotten into Auror Training at the Ministry. That’s wonderful news, sweetheart! Although my sentiments are not appreciated, just know that I’m very proud of you and I wish you luck at the Ministry._

_Tomorrow is, unfortunately, Hollis’ last day with us, and I would like to know if you want me to Apparate with him to King’s Cross, or if you’d like to come to our house and take him home. We would like to have you for supper; our cook, Roisin, makes phenomenal crab dumplings in butter sauce. Please let me know which you prefer._

_With love,_  
_Your father_

“What did he say?” Gran asked, snatching the letter out of Stateira’s hands as she read the last time. Stateira watched her gran’s eyes scan the paper, rankled by the swift interruption. Gran was nearing 105, but 105 years, two wars, the death of her husband, and caring for her 48-year-old daughter hadn’t put a dent in her keenness or sharp reflexes. 

“You’re not thinking of going there, are you?” She eyed the girl beadily as she tossed the letter on the table with contempt. 

“Of course not,” Stateira replied quickly. “I can’t afford to be sick from that muggle food.” Although privately, the image of crab dumplings had filled her mouth with saliva; she hadn’t had a meal other than bread and porridge since the Hogwarts farewell ceremony. 

She’d said the right thing: Gran gave her a rare, warm smile before turning back to the stove. At least I can please someone, Stateira thought as she turned the letter over, grabbed a quill from the far end of the table, and wrote _Apparate him to King’s Cross._ “If Maisie comes back, please make sure she takes that,” she said, pointing to the letter. 

Back in her room, she pointed her want at the letter to Riddle. _“Incendio!”_ Tomorrow Hollis would be back, and she couldn’t chance him finding anything, not when he was so friendly with Antonia Longbottom.

The next day, Stateira went to King’s Cross to fetch him, choosing to walk over Apparition, simply because she was tired of sitting in the flat and pining. The temperature was record-breaking, and halfway there, she started to regret it. By the time she got to King’s Cross, sweat had formed on her hairline and she wanted only to yank her hose off as she walked to Platform Nine. 

Hollis and the Blood Traitor stood next to the brick pillar, watching Stateira approach. Hollis’ hair was lighter and the skin on his cheeks was a peach-colored mass of freckles. Her brother had grown taller too, now only about a centimeter under her height. Her father looked the exact same as when she’d seen in last in 1947, dressed in lavish robes and slicked-back hair. His privileges exempted him from aging. 

“Good afternoon, Stateira,” he called once his daughter was in hearing range. “My, you look lovelier than—"

Stateira walked past him, reaching for Hollis. “I’ve missed you, dear brother. How was your holiday?” 

“It went well,” he told her uneasily, looking at his father. “Jolly good time as usual.”

“Glad to hear. Come on, then, let’s g—"

Her words were stopped instantly as McElroy grabbed her wrist. “Stateira.” His voice was uncharacteristically low and serious. “You need to stop this behavior. I am your _father._ I would like to have a relationship with my own daughter.”

Stateira pulled her wrist back as if she’d been stung and gave him the most condescending glare she could muster. “I thought we’ve already established that you’re no father of mine, McElroy. Now you want me, yeah? To parade your Auror daughter around as if you had anything to do with my achievements.”

Abruptly, she turned to Hollis and ran her hand down his cheek. “Come now, brother, we’ll stop at Goldstein’s and you can have a whole bag of sweets.”

“Goodbye, Dad,” Hollis muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder, to a shell-shocked McElroy. Out of the corner of her eye, Stateira could see his wounded expression, but she simply turned around and placed a hand on Hollis’ back, guiding him away. 

On the way to Goldstein’s, Hollis kept casting her furtive glances as they waded through the muggles. They strode side by side, not speaking. 

“What are you looking at?” she finally snapped. 

She could tell he wanted to say something about the Blood Traitor, but he asked, “From where did you take enough money for a whole bag of sweets?”

“Hawked some from a muggle,” she replied casually. The truth: a whispered _“Accio!”_ at a purse hanging off some poncey muggle lady and a few pounds flew into her hands on the way to King’s Cross. She’d not wanted to risk using spells in Muggle London so close to starting Auror Training, but she’d have a feeling she’d have to sweeten up her brother’s attitude toward her. 

It worked: Hollis was sufficiently mollified with an entire bag of hard candies. He greeted Gran enthusiastically and fed her the story Stateira told him to, that he’d gotten the money from her father. 

To everyone’s surprise, Calpurnia joined them for supper, although she didn’t say much and wouldn’t look at any of them. Her presence elated Hollis and aggravated Stateira. Gran fawned all over her, making her plate and pouring her water. 

“Oh, Stateira, you’ve gotten a letter from that Riddle again,” Gran said in passing as they finished up and collected the dishes. “He’s not courting you, is he?”

Hollis, who was still eating, frowned and looked up from his plate. “Riddle?”

“No, he’s not,” Stateira assured her, her chest bursting with excitement. “Where is it?”

Gran tilted her head toward the top of the fridge. “Excuse me,” Stateira said, snatching it and leaving the kitchen without waiting for a response. 

As soon as she’d closed the door to her room behind her, she ripped open the envelope.

_Dear Stateira,_

_Please be on the corner of your street at eight o’clock this evening. I will be waiting._

_Yours,_  
_Tom Riddle_

A broad smile crossed her face for the first time in ages as the door burst open and Hollis stormed in. “Why on Earth is Professor Riddle writing to you?” he hissed. 

Hastily, Stateira waved her wand at the door, pushing it shut. “None of your business, Hollis, and keep your voice down.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Hollis demanded, pointing accusingly at her. “You’re having some sort of affair with him, aren’t you? That’s what everyone’s saying in the—"

He stopped short, biting his tongue. 

“In the what?” Stateira prompted harshly. 

“Ravenclaw common room,” he finished, but his hesitation had said more than that. 

Stateira, however, wasn’t concerned about any silly rumors at Hogwarts, whether they were based in truth or not. “They can say what they want.” She placed the letter on the desk. _“Incendio!”_

As grey smoke curled away from the flames, Hollis shook his head. “Dad’s right. You’re not the same girl anymore. Riddle is changing you. He’s not Alex, Stateira, he doesn’t—"

Her hand was over his mouth before he could even react. “You shut your mouth,” she hissed into his ear, digging her fingers into his cheeks like Riddle had done to hers, except Riddle didn’t have long fingernails like she did. Hollis let out a growl of pain as they dug into his skin. “You little blood traitor.”

He grunted and attempted to pull her hand away, but he didn’t match her strength when she was that riled up. He seized a fistful of her hair and yanked. She let out a howl and shoved him away, into the desk, his elbow landing in the still-burning embers of the letter. “Argh! You evil wench! You’re as mental as Alex!”

Ears ringing, Stateira raised her wand, too full of rage to care about any consequences. _“Bom—"_

“WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?” Gran roared, dashing into the room to see Hollis cowering in pain, clutching his elbow and looking fearfully at his sister, who lowered her wand. 

“What is wrong with you, girl?” Gran squawked. “You dare use your magic on your own brother? He’s been home not even an hour! OUT!”

Stateira gaped at her. “Where do you expect me to go?” 

“Not my concern! Between your awful behavior and this correspondence with a half-blood, I’ve had enough of you! Now get out of my sight!”

“FINE!” Stateira yelled. “Have fun taking care of these two squibs all on your own!”

“I hate you!” Hollis screamed at her back as she stalked out, head held high, breathing erratically. “You’re no sister of mine!”

Stateira paused, her hand on the door knob of the front door, and turned around slowly. Her mother was still sitting at the table, watching her for the first time in months, perhaps years. “You’re no relative of ours, Hollis,” she said calmly. “The Traverses do not accept blood traitors.”

At Gran’s confused expression, she stepped out into the hallway and slammed the door in triumph. 

Her watch told her it was half-five; she had two and a half hours until meeting Riddle and nowhere to go to pass that time. She had planned to spend it dressing in nicer robes and re-styling her limp curls, but that appeared to be out of the question. After a few walks around the same two blocks, she stood on the corner and let out a sigh. 

At 7:45, Riddle walked out of the next alley over, spotting her immediately. “You’re early, darling. I haven’t kept you waiting long, have I?”

Stateira shook her head. She felt much better in his presence, but the Blood Traitor and row with Hollis plagued her. “I’m sorry I look a bit…off, my Lord. I got into a…an altercation with Hollis.”

A young muggle lady passing by turned to catch another look at Riddle, interested, but he paid no attention. “Well, to me, you are beautiful as always,” he told Stateira. He held eye contact with her and the whole dreadful day played out in her mind. When it finished, Riddle held out his arm for her to take. “Come.”

They walked into the alley from which he came and Disapparated together. As soon as Stateira’s shoes touched the carpeted hall, she knew immediately where they were: the entrance to the House of Black. Before she could wonder why they were there, Riddle took her face in his hand and gave her a hard kiss on the mouth, biting her bottom lip. They kissed for about 30 seconds—too short to Stateira—until he pulled away to speak softly in her ear. “Your family isn’t good for you. My Auror needs only the best conditions. I will arrange for you to stay somewhere better.”

Her eyes widened as her mouth opened to protest. “My Lord—"

He pressed a finger to her lips to silence her. “Come now, it’s time for the meeting.” Arm in arm once more, they walked to the dining hall. 

As soon as they stepped foot through the door, all the black-hooded men stood, heads bowed, hands at their sides. Stateira mimicked them for a moment or two when she reached the empty chair to the right of the head, until Riddle said, “Take your seats.”

Making as little noise as possible, they obeyed. Stateira noticed there was an extra person, an older boy she recognized from Hogwarts but couldn’t recall the name of. Then she looked at her hands clasped on the table, following everyone’s lead of keeping their heads inclined. Without command, Kreacher began placing goblets of firewhiskey out for everyone except Stateira, who received a goblet filled with rosemary champagne. 

“This evening, I announce good news,” Riddle said, gesturing to the unfamiliar boy. “Wilson Macnair has been promoted to the Head of Magical Beasts Office. This will be beneficial to our consortium with non-humans. Many can aid in the cleansing, but they are not satisfied with their relations with the wizarding community. Wilson has vowed to work on changing their attitude but not toward all wizards. Just us, the elite.”

They raised their goblets, toasting Macnair’s allegiance to the Dark Lord. Stateira had the privilege of being the only one to clink goblets with Riddle. After taking a drink, he continued the speech. 

“Unfortunately, for every induction into Lord Voldemort’s circle, a reduction seems to be required. Icarus has still not completed his task, and Cygnus still hasn’t gotten me his brother, Alphard, whom I understand has just received an offer for the position of Junior Undersecretary for the Minister of Magic. Is that correct, Cygnus?”

“That is correct,” Cygnus responded, looking uncomfortable. “I will ensure his allegiance to you.”

“I hope so,” Riddle said. “If I pair his position with the Imperius Curse, the Ministry will be changing rather dramatically. You have six months, Cygnus. Now, what have you found out from the Confederation?” 

Stateira was grateful that she hadn’t been excluded from any meetings, but she couldn’t help but wish this one would hurry up so the Dark Lord could take her to bed. He either read her mind or shared the same sentiment, because as Cygnus discussed the levels of security of Western European nations, she felt a slight tug on her skirt. Then a moment later, a cold hand rested on her bare knee, lightly stroking the skin of her inner thigh. Keeping her eyes trained on her hands on the table, Stateira bit her lip as the area between her legs started to pulse. 

“I’ll need a full report by next week, Cygnus,” he was saying. “That information will go hand in hand with Wilson’s findings.”

After another long discussion with Malfoy, who’d started his position at the Magical Education Department, Riddle finally uttered the magic words: “Until next time, gentlemen.” 

These were particularly sweet to Stateira’s ears because she was exempt: she would get to spend more time with the Dark Lord. But not right away—Orion and Cygnus Black were told to remain seated. 

Unsure of what to do and unable to ask, Stateira followed the others out and closed the door behind her. The rest went into the parlor, but she hadn’t been invited there, plus she wasn’t keen on running into Walburga, so she headed upstairs. 

All the doors were closed except for one. Inside, she could hear the shuffling of papers and a long, deep sigh. As Stateira walked by, she peered in to see Alphard Black sitting at his desk, flipping through what she recognized as the Ministry of Magic Training Manual for all new employees. She’d gotten hers the previous month. 

Both pairs of dark eyes met and Alphard gave her a small smile. “Hello, Stateira,” he said politely, already knowing she’d been at the meeting. They didn’t have to keep everything so hidden out of Hogwarts. 

“Hello, Alphard,” she said, giving him another one of her warm smiles. “I’ve just found out you’re about to be Junior Undersecretary for the Minister. Congratulations!” 

“Thank you,” he replied, nodding stiffly. “Congratulations to you, too, for getting into Auror Training. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” His words were sincere, but he was giving her an odd look, like she was unfamiliar even though they’d spent seven years in the same classes.

Stateira thanked him and excused herself, sensing his desire to be alone. She had to prepare for the Dark Lord anyhow. Excitement raced through her blood as her stomach flip-flopped. The room at the end of the hall was unoccupied as usual, silk sheets smoothed over the large bed. Stateira took off her robe and hung it on a hook next to the vanity. Her blouse was new, bought with the hawked muggle money, sleeveless and slightly transparent. 

When Riddle came 15 minutes later, he found her sitting properly on the bed, hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently for him. 

“I’ve sorted it out, darling. Cygnus has readily agreed that you need the utmost care as you complete your training. You will stay here at the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black until further notice.”

Stateira’s stomach sank. How was _there_ better than Gran’s? With Cygnus’ leering, Alphard’s indifference, and Walburga’s loathing of her, disaster was bound to occur. However, she did not want to appear ungrateful to the Dark Lord, so she smiled and said with reverence, “Thank you, my Lord.”

His head tilted to the side as he surveyed her. She knew she couldn’t successfully hide anything from him, but he seemed to appreciate that she kept her mouth shut. “It’s temporary, darling,” he assured her. “I will have better accommodations in the future.” 

“It’s no trouble at all, my Lord,” she said quickly. “I will gladly stay where I can serve you best.”

Riddle took her hands, pulled her up to her feet, and kissed her. As he pulled off her blouse and nudged her to lie on the bed, she reached for her wand on the nightstand, ready to cast _Muffliato_ , but he pulled her back. 

“Not necessary,” he whispered into her neck. 

“But sir, Alphard is in his room…”

“I am unconcerned. Let him hear. Let them all fill with envy.”

At those words, Stateira relaxed and pulled him closer, breaths heavy with need. 

 

For the first time in his 18 years of life, Irma and Pollux Black were proud of their youngest son. Alphard had passed with interview with flying colors and was immediately offered the position of Junior Undersecretary, replacing Wilkie Flute. It was unspoken that Pollux had pulled some strings to secure that interview, but nonetheless Alphard had succeeded in making his family proud. 

Cygnus and Orion had even thrown him a party, which was supposed to commence on Friday, August 18 at seven o’clock, but about 15 minutes into it, Cygnus informed everyone that he was to host an impromptu meeting with the Dark Lord. 

“Just wait in your old room, brother,” he told Alphard. “We shouldn’t be too long.”

Alphard hadn’t felt like continuing the party after a meeting, which would surely dampen the mood regardless of how it went. The presence of the Dark Lord didn’t have the same effect on him as it had on everyone else. 

Including Stateira McElroy, who’d shown up just for the meeting, apparently. He congratulated her because it was polite, but he didn’t mean an ounce of it. He didn’t know how to interact with her anymore, knowing she was openly Dark, proud of it, and ready to infiltrate the Ministry. Out of all his fellow Hogwarts students, her addition to the Knights had shook him the hardest. 

No sooner than she had left, Alphard heard more footsteps coming closer. Not having time to close the door, he ducked under his desk, assuming it was Cygnus or Orion but not wanting to see anyone. 

Whoever it was did not stop at his door, and Alphard peeked out to see the tall, dark-haired profile of Professor Riddle right before he disappeared down the corridor. 

He did not stop at Cygnus’ room but continued on to Aunt Dorea’s, where Stateira had gone. There was low murmuring before the door closed as Alphard put two and two together—Riddle and Stateira had left the others to be alone. It didn’t take much cognitive activity to imagine why. 

Alphard wasn’t exactly surprised that Riddle had taken a lover, since he was attractive and charming, and he wasn’t surprised that lover was Stateira, who was also attractive and one of the cleverest in their year. He supposed the surprise and revulsion stemmed from watching him not only teach her, but transform her into angry teenage girl into that confident seductress down the hall. Did she really believe in Lord Voldemort’s ideal society, or was she only roped in by Riddle? Both of those answers were equally unsettling. 

When it became apparent that no one was particularly concerned whether Alphard would be re-joining his own party, he exited his room and stopped in front of his doorway, heavily debating inside his head. Before logic could finish its case, he was creeping toward Aunt Dorea’s room. 

If Lord Voldemort was planning more attacks, Alphard had the right to know of them, he justified to himself. If he could just catch a snippet of a plan, he could somehow pass along the message to his superiors without implicating himself. It was his duty as a Ministry worker after all. 

Unfortunately, he did not hear a single word of conversation between the two but rather the throes of an intense sexual encounter. “Say it out loud,” Riddle growled, his breathing labored. 

“I’m yours,” Stateira panted. “Forever yours…”

Alphard turned away; he’d heard more than enough. So it was the latter—Stateira was so devoted to Riddle, she’d likely follow him into the depths of hell. Which was exactly what she was doing, if he considered it for too long. 

Despite feeling revolted, there was an involuntary tugging in Alphard’s trousers as Stateira’s soft cries grew heavier. Now thoroughly disgusted with himself in addition to the situation, he dashed into his room and Apparated to his parents’ manor. 

Some goddamn party, he thought miserably as he collapsed on his bed. At least the next day would be better: Ignatius was coming round for a visit with his parents’ shocking approval. The Prewetts were purebloods and not technically blood traitors, so they couldn’t ban Alphard’s closest friend regardless of his Hogwarts House. Tomorrow’s supper would bring Orion, Cygnus, Walburga, and Druella, who would undoubtedly scorn Ignatius, but Orion’s sister, Lucretia, was making a rare visit from studying rare creatures abroad. 

Cousin Lucretia was Alphard’s favorite, on account of her quirky personality and tendency to disregard the written code of conduct of the Noble Black family. She wasn’t very prim and proper, but she incited many a laugh from her brother and cousins. Best of all, Walburga couldn’t stand her, so she was usually quiet and subdued. Alphard was looking forward to Lucretia’s visit quite a bit. 

She arrived at the Black Manor around noon the next day. Spending the summer in France had given her complexion a warm, golden glow and her dark hair a reddish tint. Irma and Pollux immediately pounced on her upon her arrival. 

“My, Lucretia, how beautiful you’ve gotten!” Irma exclaimed. “You look like a French model!”

Pollux was more pragmatic. “What have you doing abroad, dear niece? And where is my brother?” 

“He and Mother will be arriving shortly,” Lucretia replied cheerfully. “Not to worry, uncle, I’ve been quite busy in France.”

“Found a suitor, have you?” asked Irma. 

“Erm, not yet.” She was saved from having to explain by the appearance of her youngest cousin. “Ah, Alphard! It’s been too long!” She stepped toward him and they locked into a tight embrace. Irma exchanged a glance with Pollux and stepped into the kitchen to ensure their house elf, Daisy, was sufficiently preparing supper. 

“Merlin’s beard, I’ve missed you,” Alphard told her earnestly. “How is France?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful! They have this absolutely beautiful magical museum, and it—"

Two loud cracks rang in the air as Cygnus, Druella, Walburga, and Orion appeared, looking like they’d stepped foot out of a Twilfitt and Tatting’s catalogue. Walburga was glaring at her husband, but that was not unusual enough to draw attention. Another crack started them all up again: Arcturus and Melania Black had arrived. If the others looked distinctively upper class, the older Black pair looked like royalty. It was quite a feat for Aunt Melania to even walk in her dress. 

“Orion, dear, how dashing you look!” she simpered, teetering toward her son, passing Lucretia without a glance. “And Walburga, you are ever so gorgeous, darling, as usual.” 

Walburga glowed, side-eyeing Lucretia, who waved her hand at her parents. “Hello, Mother and Father! I’m over here!”

Melania turned disdainfully toward her daughter, while Arcturus and Pollux disappeared into the parlor, ready to hit the firewhiskey. 

“No suitor yet, I see,” she said coldly. “Perhaps Alphard will have to take your hand?” 

Alphard and Lucretia stared at each other in horror. As Alphard took a painful, dry swallow, his hand was yanked back. 

“Pardon me, but may I have a quick word with Alphard?” Cygnus asked. 

“Yes, of course, Cygnus dear.” Melania smiled sweetly, but it didn’t reach her dark eyes. 

Alphard felt bad for leaving Lucretia, but his brother did not give him a choice, dragging him up the grand marble staircase. 

His room at the manor was a lot bigger and more elaborately designed than at Number 12: he had his own washroom, fireplace, and a wall full of books. Alphard thought they’d be going there, but Cygnus led him to the spare room, which held the family tapestry. The Black Manor was absent of all portraits except for Irma and Pollux, but heaven forbid they omit that damn tapestry, so the brothers were treated to an audience of 144 tiny pairs of blinking eyes on them. 

“Thanks for getting me out of there, brother,” said Alphard, keeping his back to the tapestry. 

Cygnus nodded distractedly. “Of course. Listen, have you given any more thought about joining the Dark Lord? He’s rather keen on having you as a Knight.”

Alphard’s heart disengaged and dropped onto his diaphragm. He knew this question would be coming, but for a few blissful weeks he’d forgotten about recruitment. 

“I—I’m not ready, Cygnus,” he blurted. “You know I can’t join him. I’m going to be right under the Minister.”

His brother appraised him impassively. “I understand, brother, but you must not only think of yourself, but your family and all of wizard-kind. You dare bring dishonor upon our name?”

 _“No,”_ Alphard said hastily. “Of course not.”

There was a different expression on Cygnus’ face now, one Alphard couldn’t decipher right away. He’d thought his brother’s eyes were widened in Knight-fanaticism, but upon closer inspection, it was fear.

“Have you got to recruit me? Perhaps if you told him I’m not ‘worthy’ or something of the like…”

“That won’t work; he knows you better than that,” Cygnus insisted. “And now that you’ve been named Junior Undersecretary, the matter is a bit more…urgent.”

“Knows me better? But how?” 

“He…” Cygnus trailed off at the sharp click of heels echoing through the corridor. The advanced closer until Walburga appeared, sour and enraged—business as usual. 

“What in the NAME OF MERLIN are you two sodding morons DOING?” 

“Talking about my mission to the Dark Lord,” Cygnus said waspishly. “Do not meddle in which you are not privileged to know.”

Their sister rolled her eyes. “Sod off, Cygnus. I don’t care for the Dark Lord’s plans, especially when they involve that McElroy staying in _my_ house.”

“Bite your tongue, wretch!” Cygnus snarled. 

“McElroy is staying at Number 12?” Alphard asked incredulously, ignoring the tension. “For how long?”

Walburga did not answer, glaring at Cygnus. “If either you or Orion go near that little harlot, there’ll be hell to pay! Now get your arses to the table, the pair of you!” She stormed off, swearing under her breath. 

“Cygnus.” Alphard at the sleeve of his brother’s robe as they walked down the marble stairs. “Why is McElroy staying at your house?”

“Haven’t a damn clue,” Cygnus replied shortly. “Dark Lord’s orders.”

At the mention of the Dark Lord, Alphard’s dread flooded his body again. He hadn’t much of a choice but to join the Knights if he wanted to keep Cygnus out of trouble. But how could he face the Ministry every day, knowing he was aiding in turning Magical Britain upside down?

And the bigger, more alarming question: how did the Dark Lord know Alphard so well to want him in his ranks even before the Ministry job offer? 

Before Alphard could formulate an answer, he reached the dining hall and saw Ignatius Prewett standing awkwardly near Cygnus and Druella, unsure where to rest his eyes. The others ignored that side of the room, congregating around Pollux at the head of the table. 

“Ignatius!” Alphard said. “Great to see you again, mate. This is my mother, Irma, my father, Pollux, Aunt Melania, Uncle Arcturus, and you remember Walburga, Orion, and Cygnus, yes? And that there is my cousin, Lucretia. Come, let’s sit over here.” Discreetly trying to catch his breath, he guided him to an empty seat across from Lucretia, who gave the somewhat-bewildered Ignatius a smile. 

Once everyone was seated, Alphard could briefly let his mind run again. The Dark Lord’s knowledge of him pointed back to the theory that he was one of Cygnus’ mates from Hogwarts. He went through the list in his head as Lucretia and Ignatius started chatting: Felix Lestrange, James Avery, Tom Riddle, Victor Mulciber…or perhaps Cygnus himself? 

“Let’s have a toast to dear Alphard for securing such a high-ranked position at the Ministry straight out of Hogwarts!” His uncle Arcturus raised his goblet. 

After the toast, Alphard studied his brother as Cygnus emptied his fifth goblet in one shot. Beside him, Druella glowered at him but he paid her no attention, digging into his food instead. 

No, it couldn’t be Cygnus; Alphard would surely have known. Then who could it be? The question plagued him so much, he barely noticed how friendly Ignatius and Lucretia were becoming. Alphard watched them enviously, as neither had been marked for recruitment.

As soon as the meal was finished and it was acceptable to leave the table, Alphard excused himself and went to his room without waiting for Ignatius. He felt a bit bad for leaving him alone with his family, but he’d been so engaged in his discussion with Lucretia, he hadn’t noticed Alphard’s exit. 

His plan, for lack of anything better to do, was to write out a list of the older former students with notations underneath, similar to how he studied for Potions, Herbology, and Charms. As a matter of fact, all of his old notebooks were on his Hogwarts trunk next to his desk. He’d never gotten around to unpacking it, so all his old notes, exams, and textbooks were in there. It was quite pleasant going through them, reminiscing fondly of years of friendship and professors’ praise on his academic performance. Hogwarts had been a breath of fresh air, a nice break from the Black family ideals pressing into him on all sides. 

The first notebook he picked up was from the past year’s Defense class, and it appeared only half-full, so Alphard decided to use it. As he flipped through it absentmindedly, a folded piece of parchment slid out from between the pages and floated to the floor. He picked it up and read a seemingly insignificant note:

_Dear Alphard,_

_Headmaster Dippet has moved the Head Meeting to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Please pass along the message to Edwina Boot and be there at 9:00 sharp._

_Thank you,_  
_Professor T. M. Riddle_

Nothing special to see there—then why couldn’t Alphard cast the note aside? Something about it held his attention…but, why would it? The note was meaningless…

Then the realization hit him so hard, he rocked backward, stumbling to the floor. The plush carpet tickled his ankles as he stared at the note. He’d seen this handwriting many times at Hogwarts, but only once outside the castle: when Cygnus had given him a letter from the Dark Lord. _That_ was from where he recognized the neat, elegant handwriting. 

Professor Riddle was Lord Voldemort. 

The statement was jarring, even though it had crossed Alphard’s mind a couple of times before. The proof was in black and white, and it left no room for questioning. 

Lord Voldemort was teaching at Hogwarts, recruiting young men like Malfoy, Yaxley, Delmont, and Alphard. And Stateira, who was about to enter the Auror Office and pledge to fight the Dark Arts while being a Knight. More than just a Knight—

“Oi, Alphard, there you are!” Ignatius’ head popped in the room out of nowhere. “We were searching for you, mate!” He entered the room, a happy-looking Lucretia trailing behind him, but they stopped short upon seeing Alphard’s face. 

“You alright, mate?” 

Telling Ignatius was out of the question forever. He dared not bring trouble on Cygnus, Orion, or any other Black. Although Ignatius was Alphard’s closest friend, that would not mean he wouldn’t run to an actual Auror. 

“Alphard…” Lucretia stepped forward, reaching for him with a concerned expression. 

He could not tell her, either. She had completed her fair share of worry about Orion. Alphard did not have it in him to break her heart and tear apart her and Orion’s already diminishing relationship. 

There was also the possibility of her asking if Alphard himself planned on joining the Dark Lord, and Alphard could not promise her he wouldn’t.

~**~ ~**~


	10. Autumn 1949

Edwina Boot and Stateira McElroy, dressed in identical navy blue robes, stood in the elevator in the Ministry of Magic, hand in hand. Both of their palms were clammy, but neither girl gave that much thought. 

“I can’t believe we made it here,” Edwina whispered. 

Stateira turned to beam at her and finally, Edwina did not see the perpetrator of the Weasley Weasel Incident or Riddle’s mistress, but her friendly Defense partner. And from this day on, fellow Trainee Auror. 

“Level Two: Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” a calm, automated voice said as the elevator doors opened. As they walked through the lobby, their heels clicking on the tiled floor, Edwina felt like a true adult. They were in a much different atmosphere than Hogwarts. The girl next to her was the picture of calm and assured, making Edwina feel slightly less grown up. 

Stateira seemed to sense this, and she turned to Edwina, still holding her hand, before they entered the Auror Office. “Remember, Edwina, we’re both here because of how hard we worked. We deserve to be here.” 

Edwina could only nod and swallow. Stateira opened the door and entered the office. There was a single desk in the front with an elderly lady shuffling through time logs. “How can I help you ladies?” she asked in a toneless voice without looking up.

“Good morning, we’re here to begin Auror Training,” Stateira said pleasantly. “Our names are McElroy and Boot.”

“Oh! Hang on, dear,” the witch said, gathering the pieces of parchment. “Hey, Arnold! We’ve got two youngbloods here; can you check their wands?” 

_Youngblood?_ Edwina mouthed to Stateira as the other girl gave a tiny shrug. A man in his early forties walked out of a cubicle on the left. 

“You got it, Glenda,” Arnold said, holding out his hands. “Wands, please.”

“Any idea who they’re under?” Glenda asked him, still looking for a specific sheet, rolls of parchment sliding off her desk to the floor. 

“Well, they’re gals, so I suppose Bell’s got ‘em.” As they handed him their wands, he looked Stateira up and down more than once. She kept her eyes straight ahead as if he wasn’t there.

“I just _can’t_ find the goddamn—oh, here we are. Yes, Edwina Boot and Stateira McElroy, correct?” At their nods, Glenda pointed to the left down a hallway of cubicles to a blue-painted door. “Once you reach that door, turn right and go all the way down to the last one on the right, room A-102. If Bell isn’t in her office, kindly wait by her door and she’ll be just but a moment.”

“Here you go, ladies,” Arnold said, holding out their wands. “You’re all checked in.”

Edwina had thought there would only be a few doors beyond the blue one, but the corridor seemed never-ending as they passed more and more. 

“A-99, A-100, A-101,” Stateira was mumbling nervously. “Ah, here, A-102. You reckon she’s in there?” 

The door was closed and there wasn’t any way of seeing through the frosted glass window. Edwina shook her head as Stateira knocked. But she was wrong; a moment later, the door opened and a tall, plain woman with pulled-back dark hair and amber-colored eyes stood in front of them. She was dressed in the same navy blue robes with a silver badge similar to a Head Girl’s pinned to her chest. HEAD AUROR, it spelled out in thin block letters. 

Although her clothes and headscarf were plain white and grey, the girl exuded femininity. “The pair of you are here for Auror Training, yes?” She stuck out a red nail-polished hand. “I’m Lysandra Bell, Head Auror. You two will be working under me for at least the next three years.”

The door to A-103 across the hall opened and an auburn head of curls with a massively freckled face poked his head out. “Where’s mine? I’m supposed to be getting a Longbottom.” 

Just as he said it, a pale-faced, darting-eyed Achilles appeared, out of breath. “I’m so sorry I’m late, sir. The elevator got stuck between…”

“Alright, alright, come in already.”

Lysandra Bell gestured for the girls to step inside her office. “Have a seat, ladies.” She closed the door behind them with a flick of her wand. 

The first thing to catch their eyes was a large, crystal-clear window depicting a grassy hill with daisies swaying slightly in an invisible wind, even though they were really under the streets of London, likely surrounded by rats. 

“So there are a ton of rules that, under normal circumstances, I’d go over with you, but in case you haven’t been following, we haven’t had a normal circumstance since the beginning of last year. That’s why we took three of you this year; usually we only take one, two at most. The Dark Lord’s activity is sure running our wheels.

“With that said, I do expect you both to read the handbook cover to cover.” She pulled open a drawer labeled TRAINING MATERIAL. Everything on the desk was in neatly-labelled boxes and drawers. Even the rolls of parchment were stacked neatly in a box labelled URGENT CASES near her typewriter. For Edwina, who often took days to hang the washing in the wardrobes, the tidiness was disconcerting. 

Lysandra passed the manuals to each girl. “You are to learn every word of these and you’ll have a quiz on it every Friday, starting with the first section. Protocol classes are every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at six o’clock. They are mandatory and missing one will place you on probation unless excused by a Healer.” She folded her hands on her desk. “After six months, you will be enrolled in Defense classes in place of Protocol, which includes but is not limited to, Concealment and Disguise and Stealth Tracking.

“After completion of Protocol, there are also Occlumency classes on Tuesdays at half past five, which are optional, but I strongly recommend learning at least the basics of Occlumency. There is current speculation that the Dark Lord is a skilled and ruthless Legilimens.”

Edwina covered her mouth as her pulse quickened. She didn’t have anything damning in her mind, but the thought of someone invading it made her skin crawl.

“Miss Bell…” Stateira began slowly.

“Oh, please call me Lysandra.” She waved a hand as if to dismiss formality. 

“Lysandra, will we be working on cases with you?”

“Well, not exactly,” Lysandra replied. “Not yet. Mostly you’ll be retrieving case files, typing up reports, and making coffee at first, unfortunately. Until you get through Protocol and undergo the first psych evaluation. But the records will give you a general idea about what we normally deal with, and extraneous cases that we may quote at trial.”

While Edwina had a visceral reaction to the thought of Legilimency, Stateira’s eyes widened at the words “psych evaluation” as her knuckle pressed to her lips. Before she could possibly ask what that entailed, the freckle-faced bloke from across the hall burst in, breathing heavily. “Lysandra…” he panted. “It’s happened again. Another attack…”

Edwina and Stateira exchanged astonished glances as Lysandra jumped up. “Stay here, girls,” she said grimly before sweeping out of the room, leaving the two bewildered girls behind. 

“We’d gone so long without an attack.” Edwina could hear the tinge of fear in her voice. She was well aware of the duties of an Auror, but up until now, they’d been abstract concepts. Once they graduated Training, it would be up to them to stop the Dark Lord. “I was praying it was over.”

Stateira shook her head. “I think it’s just begun, honestly.”

A sudden, loud _“pssst”_ from the corridor made them jump as if scalded. “Edwina, Stateira,” Achilles’ voice called from A-103. “What do you reckon’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Edwina responded, swallowing the stomach acid creeping up her throat. Fear was threatening to overtake her now, constricting her lungs. At her squeaky tone, Stateira turned to a white-faced, wide-eyed Edwina. 

“Are you alright, dear?”

“I—I don’t know if I can do this,” Edwina choked out, closing her eyes and willing away embarrassing tears. She had wanted this for years; why was she overwhelmed with fear now? 

A warm hand enveloped hers and with her other, Stateira pet Edwina’s arm. “It’s alright, Edwina, there’s nothing to fear. We won’t be involved with anything remotely dangerous for another three years when we complete Training. They’re not going to toss us out there blindfolded, dear.”

“Girls? Are you still there?” Achilles asked, but Edwina still could not speak and Stateira ignored him.

“Mark my words,” she continued, a slightly arrogant gleam in her eyes. “By this time in a couple of years, we’ll be blasting off doors and taking names.”

“Like Batman and Robin.” Temporarily forgetting her panic, Edwina giggled at the image of the pair of them busting in an old factory with bodysuits and capes on, wands raised. 

Stateira frowned. “Who’re they?” 

Just then, Lysandra reappeared, looking tired and harassed. “Alright, ladies, as you can see, there’s never a dull moment around here. My colleague Rachel here, Junior Auror, will escort you to the Record Room, where you’ll be completing your first assignment.” She stepped into the room to reveal a girl behind her with glasses and frizzy blonde hair. 

“Well, come on, then,” Rachel said briskly as Lysandra let out a sigh at her desk and wrote the date on a fresh piece of parchment: 15 September 1949. Then without a word, she Disapparated. 

“I didn’t know you could Apparate within the Ministry!” Stateira exclaimed as Rachel led them out of the room. 

“Only certified Aurors can,” Rachel replied. “And only Disapparition. We have to return via the main entrance.”

No one spoke as they followed Rachel down the corridor, turned right, and walked down yet another identical to the last one. Edwina groaned internally, sure she would be getting lost at least a dozen times. Eventually, she made out a white door at the end of the hall, which they seemed to be heading toward. At first, the black block letters were indiscernible, but as they got closer, Edwina could read the words RECORD ROOM. 

Rachel touched her wand to a black rubber circle next to the door, and a clicking noise echoed through the corridor. 

Edwina had been expecting a room that was the size of Lysandra’s office or maybe a little larger, but nothing like what was in front of them. A circular room at least the size of Hogwarts’ Great Hall contained shelved walls, a very tall ladder, and in the center, two tables and chairs like the ones in a library. The shelves were stuffed with sheets of parchment white and different shades of grey folders, labelled with names. Every so often, a plastic protrusion with a letter of the alphabet divided the folders. 

“This is the Record Room,” Rachel told them with a slight, sarcastic flourish, as if introducing a stage performer. Records are sorted by surname, and we’ve got every witch and wizard that spent a substantial amount of time in the UK since the 1100s. 

She walked over to a shelf and pulled out a charcoal-colored folder. “Those who have never committed a crime or have given a statement to Magical Law Enforcement have white folders. Rule of thumb: the longer the rap sheet, the darker the folder. Antonius Zachary here is a known Grindelwald enthusiast. He’s currently serving a 15-year sentence in Azkaban. Those who have been sentenced rather than fined will have this red dot here next to the same, you see?”

She’d already lost Stateira, who was looking around in awe, as if she wanted to sink her hands between the folders and grab all of them. 

“Any questions, ladies?” 

Edwina shook her head, but Stateira pointed to a gap on the bottom shelf. “What happens when it’s all filled up?” The gap could’ve held 20, maybe 30 more folders. 

“Another shelf appears and pushes the others up.” Rachel looked up, where the ceiling wasn’t visible, only the shelves and the ladder getting smaller and smaller. 

“Brilliant,” Stateira breathed, craning her neck and squinting. 

“Alright.” Rachel clapped her hands together. “Now on to your task. Another muggle family in Bristol has been murdered. Your job is to go through the records of every convicted wizard that lives near this family.”

“But how…?” Stateira began as Rachel raised her wand. 

“Sort by location: Bristol, England!” she bellowed. A ripple of heat swooped through the room as the younger witches reflexively took a step toward the door. “That’s right, out of the way, ladies!” Rachel warned as the room started to shake. A folder whizzed by Edwina’s head as they ducked and dashed to the door. At once, hundreds of folders fell from various areas of the shelves and stacked themselves neatly on the tables. After a minute, the shaking stopped and the room was once again silent. 

“Unfortunately, there is quite a large magical population in Bristol, which will not help with narrowing down a lead,” Rachel said. “So for now, you must disregard the light folders and focus only on the darker shades. This year’s trend has been senseless muggle attacks, which come from a deep-seated hatred of muggles in general. Not only are the attackers likely to have a history, their families are as well. Although we could argue that the most vicious muggle-haters have folders of white.”

“Rachel Strickland, please report to A-500,” the warm voice from the elevator echoed around the room. 

“I’ve got to run,” Rachel said unnecessarily. “Good luck and please be sure to bring all of the folders you’ve collected to my office, which is in A-100.”

She left and Edwina approached the table. Surely the task would take at least a few hours, depending on how fast they worked. She and Stateira had been efficient Defense partners, so it wasn’t too much of a concern, except Stateira couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from the shelves. 

“Stateira…let’s get started, shall we?” Edwina suggested, hoping she didn’t sound rude, especially after the other girl’s earlier comfort. 

“Oh, right, sorry.” She sat down across from Edwina and pulled down a grey folder from the pile. “Dear me, we’ve got access to everyone’s business, haven’t we? Look…place of birth, parents, Hogwarts House. Merlin, even their OWL scores.”

Edwina selected a folder, opened it, and saw that she was right: the Ministry did have a rather alarming amount of knowledge on the average citizen. She wondered if she’d ever overcome her fear of heights to climb up to the B section. Perhaps she could simply ask for the name and her folder, too, would come down. 

Stateira had gone through a couple of folders only to start staring around again. How much information in this room could solve so many cases, Edwina thought. But was all of their information used, or did the Ministry want to keep tabs on everyone for its own good?

~**~ ~**~

_30 September 1949_  
 _Dear Antonia,_

_It has been 14 days since the last muggle attack and I am happy, yet wary, to report that not much else has been going on as of late. It appears that the Knights’ strategy is to lie low for a few weeks before striking again._

_That is not to say there hasn’t been any Dark activity, however. If you see a potion outside of Slughorn’s classroom that claims to be Felix Felicis and looks very similar to it, DO NOT drink it. It renders the drinker incapacitated for up to 12 hours and causes severe dizziness for the foreseeable future. I’m unsure of any motive or suspects, as that type of information isn’t shared with Trainee Aurors, or “youngbloods,” as they call us. Perhaps Professor Merrythought may know, since her correspondence is with Lysandra Bell, the Head Auror. But to be honest, there is a lot Bell doesn’t share with anyone, even her cohort, Edward Brown. Has Achilles said anything of his Training? I know next to nothing of what he and Brown get up to, as we’re usually separated. I’m quite glad to work under Lysandra Bell, though. She is very clever and has got a sharp eye for detail. Perhaps you remember her as Head Girl in 1945? I didn’t; Stateira told me._

_As for my summer, it was swell, actually, a significant improvement over years past. Dad’s speaking more, and in August he took Callista flying almost every day. Poor thing is rather dreadful at it, but she’s intent on being the next Hufflepuff seeker. How does she seem at Hogwarts? Is she making friends? She assures me she is, but if she isn’t I can’t fault her if she’s anywhere near as shy as I was at that age. I do feel as if she is slightly more outgoing, at least._

_Please continue to keep me updated on the DA and Hollis in particular. Stateira says they’ve had a row and he won’t answer her letters. No, I don’t know what the row was about and I reckon it’s none of our business unless Hollis has told you something. Just try to keep an eye on him, yeah? Also, do not stress over your NEWTs. You’ve gotten the necessary amount of OWLs for Training, and that’s all they really take into consideration. Regardless, I have the utmost confidence that you’ll do superbly. You always do._

_I’m glad to hear your first weeks of seventh year are going smoothly. Do keep updating, as I enjoy not only hearing of Hogwarts but our correspondence. Send my well wishes to the DA!_

_Sincerely,_  
_Edwina_

 

_23 October 1949_  
_Dear Edwina,_

_Things at Hogwarts have been interesting lately. Fleamont Potter has gotten a string of detentions again, so he hasn’t been to any DA meetings. I don’t have any details but Bruin says he mouthed off to Daniel Crabbe, the Slytherin prefect. Reckless, that boy is. Tensions are still a bit high after the Bristol muggle attack. I can’t imagine it’ll go away any time soon, with all the uncertainty in the air. A bright side is that Callista is not witnessing it, being a part of the eternally neutral House. She is all smiles as usual from what I’ve gathered, and she travels with a group of first and second-year Hufflepuffs._

_All of my classes are going well. I’d say the most intense by far is Defense. We’re learning jinxes and counter-jinxes almost daily, and those who haven’t mastered them by the end of the week face detention, where they’ve got to duel Riddle himself. As gainful as that seems in terms of Auror Training, I’m thoroughly thankful that I haven’t found myself in that position. Riddle is still so intimidating and as handsome as ever. I wonder if he is still seeing Stateira? He doesn’t seem to have such an interest in any other girl, although admittedly, he hasn’t got much of a selection. If I may have a moment to toot my own horn, I surpass most of the girls and most of the boys by a large margin._

_Some exciting news: my parents have arranged a trip to Greece and Italy over winter holiday! It’s quite a shame that Achilles can’t have any time off from Training, but I suppose that is more of a benefit. I feel a bit bad that I’ll be leaving the DA in all this turmoil, but some sunshine, salty air, and the sea will do wonders for my spirit! I do wish you could come. Perhaps when you are a Junior Auror, we will take a trip to celebrate._

_Hollis is doing spectacularly in the DA. From what he tells me, his marks are about average, but he’s a natural leader, always keeping track of Merrythought’s updates and pitching grand ideas. He’s even a Chaser on the Quidditch team now! I reckon when I finish, he will take on my role if he so desires._

_Speaking of updates, Merrythought told us that there was an incident about a bridge collapsing that may have something to do with the Knights. Have you heard anything of it? Do continue to keep me updated._

_I’m so very happy you’re excelling in Training, as I predicted you would. Achilles says his is going splendidly as well; he gets on with Brown nicely. It’s a bit dull without you too, but I’ve got Hollis and that Gryffindor, Minerva McGonagall. What a hoot that girl is! Another natural leader. Perhaps we could meet in Hogsmeade one weekend before the cold sets in? Letters are swell, but there’s nothing like face-to-face conversation over a butterbeer. Let’s arrange a date and time! I’ll ask Achilles to come along, but he’ll probably decline. Oh well, just us gals will be a ball, too!_

_Sincerely,_  
_Antonia_

~**~ ~**~

Stateira had been given her first Ministry-related task from the Dark Lord, but she had to wait until she had a valid reason to enter the Record Room to carry it out. Another option was to swipe Rachel’s or Edwina’s wand somehow, but better and easier to wait until she was assigned to look up a wizard, which occurred frequently enough. Nevertheless, Lord Voldemort was patient with the Knights who obeyed his command.

The chance came at the beginning of November: Rachel had told her to fetch the records of two known criminals: Theodore Hatcher and Reginald Summers. Both had convictions for permanently Obliviating muggles for seemingly no reason or motivation. 

“Sort by: name. Hatcher, T. and Summers, R. English.” 

Two deep grey folders zoomed onto the desk as Stateira ascended the ladder—the third name couldn’t be spoken out loud because it was liable to be traced. She pulled herself and the ladder to where the M shelves started. There were thousands of surnames beginning with “Ma,” even a few “Mb,” and another thousand with “Mc” before she found the file she was searching for: McElroy, Alexander. 

The folder was so black, it seemed to suck up some of the light from the mini-lamps hanging from the shelves. Holding it under her arm, Stateira tapped the ladder with her wand. The step under her feet extended about a foot as a metal cane-like rod sprouted out. She gripped it and the step dropped, lurching her stomach. 

Once she was at the table, she quickly opened the folder and pulled down her hose under her robe with the other. There was not a second to spare to look at the file, as anyone could enter the Record Room at any moment. Rachel was in her office, waiting for the other two records for at least ten minutes. After peeling a two-foot roll of parchment from around her thigh, Stateira smoothed it on the table, pressed the first sheet of Alexander’s report face-down against it, and muttered an incantation. 

There were five pages total; she’d used both sides of the parchment roll, taking care not to smear the ink as she wrapped it back around her leg. Sweat covered her entire body. Duplicated records without written permission from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was forbidden, as stated in paragraph 315 of _Ministry Rules and Regulations._

However, most of the others were generally too busy to really look at anything going on in the Auror Office, so Stateira wasn’t paralyzed with fear. She returned Alexander’s folder to its original place. Even if the Dark Lord hadn’t asked her for his record, she knew she would’ve read it regardless. 

Later that evening, she was able to sit in Dorea’s room in the House of Black and view the whole record. By a stroke of luck for her, Protocol had been postponed to the following evening due to a vicious “earthquake” in the North that was suspected to be giant activity. 

There were two photos of Alexander in his record: his mugshot from 1947 and his prefect photo from 1941. God, he was so handsome and secure as a teenager. Everyone had loved him, but he had only cared for her, even more so than for Hollis, it seemed like. Hollis’ care had been left to Gran and Stateira after Calpurnia had fallen ill, but Stateira had never felt a weight on her shoulders. Alex had always looked out for her, in and out of Hogwarts. She had wanted to the Magic Army with him after finishing school, but the Army accepted very few witches. 

But then Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald and Alexander got Kissed. Yes, it still pained her, but it was hardly any matter by now. She had the Dark Lord. 

He’d requested a specific piece of information, which the record may or may not have contained: the fate of Alexander’s wand. The Dark Lord was very keen on discovering what had happened beyond its confiscation. Protocol had taught Stateira that all wands of owners sentenced to the Kiss were systematically destroyed, but she needed confirmation for this particular wand. 

As predicted, the record only indicated that his blackthorn wand was confiscated upon arrest. _For further inquiry, see Wand Official._ Currently, the Wand Official was Arnold, the sod who constantly hit on Stateira and Edwina, staring at them lewdly or referring to them as “young little things.” 

Stateira let out a sigh and dropped her forehead against her palm, dread washing over her. Which was more difficult, dealing with Arnold or her brother’s sentence glaring her in the face? She supposed it didn’t matter much. Both were inevitable. 

Somewhere downstairs, perhaps the parlor, Cygnus and Druella were having an ear-shattering row. Even the portraits were howling at them to shut up. Druella’s voice was shrill and desperate while Cygnus, drunk, paced about and shattered glass and porcelain figurines, giving Kreacher a long night of cleaning afterward. 

Stateira loathed Cygnus and Druella, but nothing compared to the strength of hatred she had for Walburga. When she and Orion had a row, there was no thundering or breaking of objects, only Walburga’s snappish, cutting insults and Orion’s meek responses. If he tried to walk away, Walburga tore at his robes, screeching and spitting. She constantly accused him of trying to seduce Stateira, even though he and Stateira had never been in the same room outside the Dark Lord’s meetings nor spoken to each other. 

This would aggravate Cygnus, who would lash out at his sister, who’d then turn her wrath on him, and the cycle continued. This happened about every three days; the Blacks couldn’t seem to get on for more than 48 hours. 

Stateira thought often of returning to Gran’s flat, but neither Gran nor Hollis seemed to miss her much, and she did not want to go against the Dark Lord’s wishes. So there she sat in Dorea’s room, avoiding them all. Kreacher, who evidently sensed this, brought plates to her, for which she was grateful but unsure if she should express it. 

Perhaps if Alphard Black was around, it would be more tolerable, but Alphard was at his parents’ manor wrapped up in, Walburga’s words, “poncey Prewett and his slag sister.” It was unclear to all why Walburga hated her cousin, but both Cygnus and Orion speculated—behind her back—that it was because Lucretia Black surpassed Walburga in both attractiveness and intelligence. 

Finally, the husband and wife shut up and went their separate ways for the night. Everyone else in the house, person, painting and creature, let out collective breaths. Stateira glanced at her watch—12:22 in the morning. She still hadn’t completed her Protocol sheets and now she had to form a solid plan. 

_Such is the life of a Knight,_ she thought, pursing her lips in determination and grabbing her quill. 

 

A week and a half later, the stars were aligned and Stateira seized her chance to complete her task. Lysandra, Brown, and about a dozen Aurors were out investigating a crime scene. The Trainee Aurors were given the task of taking all the closed cases back to the Record Room. Stateira had done Lysandra’s a week prior, so Lysandra, in her haste to get to the crime, had told her to copy the time logs of all the other Aurors. It took Stateira all of 15 minutes to complete. 

All of the cubicles by the main entrance were empty. They were assigned to owners, but all of the Senior Aurors and Rachel, the single Junior Auror, were rarely at their desks. A large wave of magical disturbances was rippling across the UK. Like Hogwarts, the Ministry had an air of fear and uncertainty. 

Stateira was unaffected by that. She strode to Arnold’s office and leaned on the wall separating it from the hall. Glenda was on lunch. She had 45 minutes, maybe an hour. 

“Arnold, I’m going out to grab a salad from Spinnet’s. Would you like anything?” 

“Oh, no, dear, I’ve got my lunch already. Barb made me some type of casserole.”

“Alright,” Stateira replied brightly. “I’ll be back in a moment, then. I do hope I don’t run into that terrible old muggle again.”

Arnold’s face grew serious. “That ragged old bloke?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Stateira widened her eyes and clutched at her heart for effect. “The other day he approached me, mumbling incoherently. It was truly dreadful! I didn’t know what that nutter was up to.” She was heavily exaggerating; the muggle had only looked her up and down, similar to how Arnold was that very moment. “Thank heavens Longbottom showed up and escorted me to the entrance.”

Arnold, ever the chivalrous one despite the remarks to the young girls, behaved the way she hoped he would. “Why, I can’t let you go alone, then! But I can’t escort you, I’ve got to watch Glenda’s desk.” 

“I can watch it if you’re up for a walk,” she offered quickly. “Unless we’re expecting an outsider?” 

“Not any time soon, as they’re still wrapping up at the scene. Blimey, I wonder what happened there.” 

“I’ve not the faintest idea, either.” 

Arnold stood up. “Alright, I could use a walk. Write down which salad you’d like.” 

“Thanks, Arnold. You’re wonderful!” She gave him a smile she hadn’t showed to anyone other than the Dark Lord since Hogwarts and batted her eyelashes. He winked at her and took the scrap of parchment from her. As an added bonus, he refused her money and left. 

Now she was down to 30 minutes. Plenty of time, unless someone expectedly showed up. Instead of shelves, Arnold’s office had tall filing cabinets on either side of his desk, each labeled with a letter. M was on the bottom right. When Stateira pulled the handle, she was nearly thrown flat on the floor. She jumped out of the way just in time as the drawer shot out at least 10 feet and disappeared into the opposite wall. These files were barely a page long. 

_Alexander McElroy_  
_(11 June 1924-21 March 1947)_  
_Conviction: Murder_  
_Sentence: Dementor’s Kiss_  
_Wand: Blackthorn and unicorn hair, 11”_  
_Wand Location: disposed of by Ministry of Magic_  
_Witnessing Wand Official: Charlie Sathmary_

Ten minutes later, Stateira had another rolled-up parchment around her leg with ink on it, and Arnold’s office looked like she’d never entered it. She was relieved and quite shocked that her plan, yet again, had gone so smoothly, since the alternative plan involved shooting a few Memory Charms. She had never Obliviated anyone before, but with the nature of her work, she knew she’d have to soon enough. 

There was only one thing left to do, and unfortunately Stateira couldn’t carry it out that same day due to the constant presence of Edwina and Achilles in the Record Room. One more risk: copying the first page of Charlie Sathmary’s record, or at least the address. This was easy, as she simply had to jot it down, which she could do on the ladder, high above anyone’s head. 

The Dark Lord did not assign her this specific duty, but she already knew it was built into the task and therefore must be done. He would probably need to track Sathmary down and confirm that the wand was indeed destroyed. She wondered once more of the importance of Alexander’s wand. Did the Dark Lord need to prove that he really killed Dumbledore? 

She found out another week later, when the Dark Lord called a meeting. She was over-the-moon excited to see him, not only to present her good news but because she hadn’t seen him in a bit. She rather missed him. Upon the conclusion of the last meeting, he’d been in too much of a rush to spend time with her. 

The meeting was short and consisted of Mulciber’s update on giant and werewolf involvement, which was going better than anticipated based on everyone’s pleasant mood. After another round of firewhiskey, the Dark Lord concluded the meeting and everyone left the dining hall, chatting amicably. The glory days they’d been promised would be arriving soon. 

Stateira, if she was honest, was not concerned with what was happening beyond London or Hogwarts. She cared about _her_ glory days, and today was one of them. 

“My Lord,” she said as Riddle set his goblet down and stood up. “May I speak with you in private about the task you’ve given me?” 

He only needed to look at her directly for a flush to creep on her cheeks and an ache of want to clench her chest. “Yes, of course, Stateira.” Without further ado, he took her hand and they Apparated to Dorea’s room. 

It had changed a bit since the last time he’d been in there. It was messier, because Stateira hadn’t gotten a chance to do anything other than make the bed. It was clear that someone spent a lot of time there, evidenced by the coursework splayed out on the desk and a picture frame next to a row of ink pots. 

“My Lord, I’ve completed the task,” she said with a touch of pride in her voice. “Both the record and the wand file have shown that Alexander’s wand has been destroyed. However…” 

She opened the bottom drawer, pulled out two pieces of parchment, one long and one short, and unrolled them. “This is his record, where it says that his wand was destroyed.” She slid the longer under the shorter one. “This backs up that record, and this”—she pulled out a scrap of paper with Charlie Sathmary’s address—“is the address of the wand official who’d allegedly witnessed the destruction of the wand.”

Riddle held the scrolls in one hand and the scrap in the other, reviewing everything. Then he tucked the scrap in his robes and set the two scrolls on the desk before picking up the picture frame. Inside was the only photograph Stateira owned: herself, around age seven, holding a plump baby Hollis, with the handsome figure of 15-year-old Alexander beside her. 

Stateira stood still, frowning, nonplussed. “My Lord?” she asked cautiously. 

He set down the frame and smiled at her. “You’ve done well, darling.”

She didn’t feel like she’d done well, as there was something about this wand that was clearly significant, but she couldn’t figure out what. 

Riddle placed a hand on her cheek and kissed her softly on the lips. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said and before Stateira could even form a thought, he’d Disapparated. 

“Again, I’m left with longing,” she sighed, upset at how bitter she felt. The Dark Lord was a busy man; of course he didn’t have time to placate her. She had to deal with it like an adult, not a little girl. 

The method of dealing was glaring her in the face on her desk: more goddamn Protocol sheets. It felt like her life was one long Protocol sheet, but her workload was only going to increase in the next few months so, so complaining was useless. She completed four of them, changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed. 

The sheets were cool against her warm skin and immediately her eyes closed in contentment. She’d pleased the Dark Lord. Now she must await her second task. 

CRACK! 

Stateira jolted awake with a gasp. It felt like she’d only just fallen asleep, but snores from the portraits and Orion echoed around the house, letting her know it was much later. 

She lifted the sheets off her legs and grasped her wand, ready to jump out of bed and fire a hex. The noise sounded like it’d come from right outside her door. She froze as footsteps approached and there was a soft knock on the door. 

“Coming,” she said as she stood and grabbed her robe. After sliding it on and buttoning it over her gown, she opened the door to see the Dark Lord standing in the corridor. 

“My Lord!” She bowed and stepped back, allowing him in. “You came back.” 

“Of course I did. I believe I promised you a lesson.”

His tone, unlike before, was short and tight, but her eyes lit up all the same. Stateira loved his lessons almost as much as she loved the man himself. They were her chance to prove her worth, to earn his touch. 

Eagerly, she stood on the balls of her feet. “Which spell are we working on tonight, my Lord?” 

For the first time, she saw exhaustion in his face, almost dejection. “Pick whichever you’d like.”

A moment passed as Stateira bit her lip and looked down, her loose hair falling over her face. Then, as if she was suddenly jerked by marionette strings, she looked up, raised her wand, and cried, _“Legilimens!”_

Their last lesson had been Legilimency, undoubtedly to get her off his back about it, and she’d failed miserably. But Stateira had practiced since then. In Edwina’s mind, she’d seen the rainy village of Ottery St. Catchpole and her little sister wobbling on a broom. Alphard Black had visited Number 12 a week prior, and a flash of his mind revealed a book in his parents’ library: _The Pureblood Directory._ Every Sacred 28 had one; Stateira’s gran kept hers in the nightstand like a Christian would keep the Bible. Perhaps he wanted to look up whom he wanted to take as a wife, since his whole family kept on hassling him about it. 

Every mind has a pace: Edwina’s was slower than Alphard’s, but both of them made it fairly easy to decipher the memories. Riddle’s was fast; blurry memories raced past, out of her reach. She couldn’t catch a single thing for a few moments until a sitting room came into focus, saturated with black and grey. An old man cowered, Riddle raised his wand… The next flash was abnormally bright and fuzzy: an axe slashing a dark wand in two… Grindelwald’s symbol, the triangle over a circle with a line down the middle… _A wand that always wins duels for its owner, a wand worthy for a wizard who had conquered Death!_ Pages of a book that appeared to be _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ …and a harsh, blaring white wall. 

Both locked in concentration, Stateira and Riddle stood face to face, staring at each other. Stateira unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth and finally spoke. “I apologize, my Lord, but if I’d warned you, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Her honesty brought a small grin to his face, and for a moment he was Professor Riddle again. “Fair enough. I see you’ve been practicing. Well done.” 

“Thank you, my Lord.” She bowed gracefully, but he turned away and took a seat on the desk chair, looking off into the distance, an eyebrow wrinkled. He was preoccupied with something, Stateira realized. The Elder Wand. 

“My Lord, if I may…” She took a few tentative steps toward him, reaching out slowly. She knew trying to comfort him was not a good idea, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from placing a hand on his shoulder. Riddle didn’t seem to care either way. “The Elder Wand is…not necessary…”

Truthfully, she didn’t really believe in the wand’s existence; to her it was only a story from _Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ which was full of myths. Rumor had it that Grindelwald possessed the Elder Wand, but Stateira was more inclined to believe that he, like Riddle, was immensely skilled and powerful on his own. 

“My Lord, you are already the most powerful wizard in the world. None could come close to your ability, with the Elder Wand or not.”

Stateira wanted to bend low, run her fingers through the dark waves of hair, and speak the words seductively in his ear, but she felt as if she was already pushing the envelope. 

He met her eyes again and gently took her hand. “You really love me,” he stated, as if was observing it for the first time. 

“Of course I love you, my Lord,” she said proudly. “That will never change.”

She’d said the right combination of words. Riddle pulled her on his lap and slid his cold hands under her gown as she kissed him with abandon, no longer concerned about coming on too strong. He matched her intensity and she pressed into him, reveling in his touch at last.

~**~ ~**~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This chapter was going to be way longer, but it reached massive proportions so I had to slice it in two. The good news about that is there won't be such a wait between this one and the next because I've got it all typed out already. Yay!  
> -I honestly can't remember if that quote about the Elder Wand was pulled from somewhere or I made it up. So for all intents and purposes, let's just say it isn't mine.


	11. Winter 1949-1950

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAIR WARNING: This is the chapter where the M rating comes into play. Also, things get INTENSE from here on out. So...enjoy!

No task would be assigned for the time being except to master Occlumency, which was motivated by both the Dark Lord and the Ministry. Stateira had gotten a date for the psychological evaluation on a yellow slip: 18 December, six o’clock in the evening. Edwina’s was the 19th and Achilles’ the 17th. Neither of them were particularly stressed over it, but neither of them were working for the Dark Lord, either. 

No meetings would be held for the time being, either, as the Knights were busy collecting beasts and Ministry moves. It was time to lie low and strategize. 

Stateira wished more than ever that she was at Hogwarts, not only because of Riddle, but she missed interacting with others, even Hollis, who was still not answering her letters. She’d heard an update about him from Edwina. Apparently he spent a lot of time with Antonia Longbottom, which slightly irked Stateira, but it was beyond her control. Her brother would make his own choices without her. 

That didn’t mean she would stop writing him letters, however. About a week and a half before the dreaded evaluation, Stateira wrote honestly and feverishly in another unsent letter, this time to Hollis instead of Riddle, to keep her mind off the annoying sting of wistfulness. 

_10 December 1949_  
_Dear Hollis,_

_Yes, I’m seeing Riddle and yes, I’m in love with him. I’ve been in love with him since 1947; are you happy now? Yes, he reminds me of Alexander because while you may not adore our brother, I do, and I always will. Riddle was the one to lift me out of the swamp of blackness that consumed me after Alex’s death, and I shall not lose that. Are you satisfied now, brother? As you sit with that Longbottom with your mouth open wide as she spoon-feeds you tales of McElroy evil and woe? Remember, Hollis, family is everything, and you best not forget that._

_By the way, I apologize for calling you a squib. Don’t aggravate me any longer, and I’ll never call you a word such as that again. I know you’ve got magical talent—you are Travers, after all. I love you; please write back to me. At the very least, send one of your drawings of Hogwarts._

_With love,_  
_Stateira_

Letting out a breath and twirling a lock of hair, Stateira rested her elbow on the desk, leaning her jaw against her fist. Tonight there was a meeting, but it was at ten o’clock and her watch was on showing only half-seven. She briefly wondered if Cygnus, who was already quite drunk and belligerent, was going to last until the meeting. 

_“Incendio.”_ She watched the letter burn, biting her lip. How could she look out for her brother if he wouldn’t speak to her? She wasn’t going to let Longbottom do it, but other than kidnapping her from Hogsmeade, she hadn’t an idea how to stop her. 

There was a clomping sound up the stairs: Cygnus had exhausted his rage and was now going to sleep it off, hopefully. The fight was over, so it was safe for Stateira to go downstairs and fetch a cup of tea, since Kreacher was nowhere to be found. 

She vanished the ashes and left the room. As she crept down the corridor, she heard a door open, but she was almost to the stairs so it didn’t matter—

“Oh!” she cried as someone grabbed her from behind and clapped a hand over her mouth. 

“Now I’ve got you where I want you,” a voice growled in her ear and the air was tinged with the scent of firewhiskey. She struggled to pull her wand out of her robes, but Cygnus was too strong, his grip too vice-like. 

He pushed her against the wall and planted his lips on hers, his hands pinning her wrists. 

“Cygnus, get off me,” she said firmly, but he didn’t listen. Instead he bit the skin on her neck, yanking up her dress. 

“You want this,” he hissed in her ear. “That innocent look doesn’t fool me.”

“Get—"

“WHAT THE DEVIL IS GOING ON HERE?”

Cygnus jumped back from Stateira and she saw the shadowed figure of Walburga at the top of the staircase. The portraits were straining their necks to see, but in the dim light of the chandelier they couldn’t see the pair. 

“I _knew_ it.” Without waiting for a response, Walburga hopped back down the steps. “Oh, Druella!” she sang out. “Guess what our lovely houseguest is doing with your dear husband!”

Anger rising in her chest, Stateira shoved Cygnus away from her with as much force as she could muster and stalked off after Walburga. 

In the parlor, Druella sat on a high-backed velvet armchair in robes of lace with her legs tucked underneath her, dabbing at her cheeks. “I knew she’s a right and utter slag,” Walburga was saying. 

“W—what?” Druella choked out, turning to Stateira, who ignored her. 

“Don’t you dare speak of me in such a manner,” Stateira snapped at Walburga. “I have no desire for your brother. Cygnus pales in comparison to the Dark Lord.”

Cygnus, who’d stumbled in just behind her, glared at her and made a scathing noise. 

“Please!” Walburga shouted, making Druella wince. “You’d turn down a wealthy, pureblood Ministry official for that maniacal—"

“BITE YOUR TONGUE, WALBURGA!” Cygnus roared as Stateira plunged her hand into her robes. Just as she’d thought of a hex and raised her wand, a deafening CRACK sounded out, and they all looked around for a moment, confused. 

“My Lord,” Cygnus bawled, dropping to his knees as the Dark Lord appeared in the doorway. 

Stateira wondered if she should also kneel, but he was already approaching her. Ignoring everyone else, he stopped in front of her and gave her a smile, but it was so cold and cutting, she recoiled slightly. 

“My, aren’t you rocking the boat, darling,” he said in his calm, pleasant voice, but his eyes spoke differently. Before she could unfreeze, he snatched her arm and Disapparated. 

As soon as Stateira’s feet had touched the floor, she was being shoved down, balance lost. She crashed painfully to the floor, narrowly avoiding her face smashing into the old wood. They were in the flat he’d taken her during the blissful summer of 1947. 

“My Lord,” she gasped as she pulled herself to her feet, stepping on the bottom of her robe and stumbling. “Let me—"

_“Silencio.” _There was a pinch in her throat. The spell came out as a hiss, but his next words were in that pleasant tone again. “I should have expected this from you. My mistake. I’d thought you were better-controlled than that, but that’s what they say about girls with absent fathers. I’ve seen it for myself—they seek the comfort of any man.”__

____

__

Unable to speak, Stateira shook her head desperately, her eyes filling with tears at his harsh words. Then her throat was released. “My Lord, you are mistaken!” 

At once, his expression matched his eyes: he glared at her with disdain, his voice low and laced with anger. “Do not tell me what I am and am not, little girl.” 

The sudden change froze her up again with fear. Thankfully, the urge to cry dissipated completely. 

“Bow to me.”

The words didn’t process in her mind right away, and she remained standing for a moment too long. 

_“Imperio!”_ A pale yellow light shone at the tip of his wand and a warm, relaxing sensation spread through her body. 

_Bow to me._

Her knees sank to the floor. The impact should have caused jolts of pain, but none came. An invisible hand pushed her forward and she inclined her head. 

“That’s better.” The voice was out of her head and back to pleasant. “Now remove your robe and dress.”

Anticipating the Imperius Curse, Stateira pawed at her robe, unbuttoning it and pulling it off. She bent over, pulling her dress over her head, left in only a bra, knickers, and thigh-high hose. White, as per the Ministry uniform. 

“On your hands and knees.”

She hesitated too long again. _“Imperio!”_ Her mind blanked out as her palms pressed against the floor. 

The Dark Lord stood over her, unmoving, for eternity, forcing her head down with her hair falling over her face. Then, he slowly walked around her, out of view. A ruffling of fabric as he crouched down beside her. He ran his hand down her back as the curse lifted and she was covered in goosebumps, shivering with cold. 

SMACK! 

Stateira let out a yelp as her bare backside stung, balancing on one hand as she held the other over her mouth. 

“It’s alright, darling,” he chuckled. “You may cry out. In fact, I prefer it.” As his hand made harsh contact with her skin, she whimpered, afraid, but underneath the blanket of fear, arousal was quickly blossoming, which he found straight away. He rubbed his hand against her damp knickers. 

“You like this, don’t you?” 

“Y—yes, my Lord,” she managed. “Please…”

Abruptly, the Dark Lord stood and she looked up at him, begging him with her eyes to touch her. 

“Oh no, darling, you’ve been too naughty,” he said with that cold smile before Disapparating. 

As his robes whipped out of sight, she reached for them, breathing heavily. “Damn it!” she howled in rage. He’d gone, left her lying on the floor in the yellow glow of the streetlight through the sitting room window. 

 

Alphard sat at his desk in Black Manor, organizing the Minister’s meeting schedule for the upcoming week. He’d messed up somewhere, and currently there were two meetings back-to-back on Monday. He had strict orders not to arrange them back-to-back. How could he have not noticed that? 

CRACK! He turned around sharply to see Cygnus in the middle of the room. “Alphard, you’ve got to come with me.”

“What?” Alphard said, standing up. “Where?” 

“To Number 12.” His brother was gasping and heaving, wide-eyed and twitchy. Alphard realized that he was terrified. 

“Cygnus, what’s going on?”

“The Dark Lord has requested your presence immediately. Listen, before you protest, I’m telling you I’m in slight shite with him right now, so if you could just come along, nod your head, and be obedient, that would be swell.”

From Cygnus’ expression, Alphard deduced that he hadn’t much of a choice in the matter, so he put on his robe and Disapparated to Number 12.

Druella and Walburga were sitting in the parlor with Cygnus standing awkwardly by Druella’s side. The tension in the air was visceral. Druella’s eyes were red, puffy, and bare, and Cygnus was avoiding the two women’s glare. 

Although everyone had been expecting the Dark Lord to show at any minute, the crack in the hall still caused them to jump. Swift, angry footsteps approached and there he was, Professor Riddle—Lord Voldemort. 

“Lady Black,” he said politely to Druella. “If you’ll please excuse us for a bit, I’m afraid I have to have a quick meeting.”

“Of course,” Druella blurted, hastily scuttling out. Walburga started to follow, but Riddle stopped her. 

“Take your seat, Walburga.” 

She glared at him with open hatred as Cygnus glanced at her uneasily. But she sat and kept her mouth shut; the Dark Lord and Pollux Black were the only two with that power over her. 

“Alphard,” Riddle said calmly. “I’ve been patiently waiting for your allegiance. You want to honor your family, don’t you?” As if there was any possibility Alphard wouldn’t agree. 

“Yes, sir.”

Behind Riddle, Cygnus was nodding in approval, eyes slightly bulging. 

“Glad to hear it.” Riddle gave him a chilling smile, the anger in his eyes untouched. “Soon I will require your formal vow but not today. In the meantime, I trust that you will serve the Minister to the best of your ability.”

“Y—yes, sir.” 

Satisfied, Riddle turned away from him and spoke to Cygnus and Walburga. “The pair of you are lucky to stand unscathed. I’ve told you to take care of my Auror and what have you done? _Act_ like the noble purebloods you are instead of like filthy animals. I’m bringing her back, and you will both ensure that she is comfortable. I need her in sound mind. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Cygnus replied quickly, inclining his head. Walburga did the same but silently. 

“Good. I’ve got to postpone the original meeting. Cygnus, wait for my call.”

“What should I tell the others, my Lord?” 

“Not my concern.” Riddle turned his back and Disapparated. Cygnus let out a sigh and turned back to Walburga. 

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he said.

“Sod off, Cygnus,” she snapped, jumping to her feet. “I should not have to pay for your mistakes! I told you to leave her alone!”

“What have you done, Cygnus?” Alphard asked, trying not to think of the fact that he’d just agreed to follow the Dark Lord. He still hadn’t even processed that the Dark Lord and Professor Riddle were the same person. 

“He cozied up to that McElroy, that’s what!” Walburga said loudly, pointing at her brother. “What shame you bring upon our family!” 

“Shut the hell up, Walburga,” Cygnus growled. “You’re the one nobody wanted to marry! That’s some dishonor.”

“McElroy _allowed_ that?” Alphard blurted, briefly recalling the way Stateira looked at Riddle. 

“Shut your goddamn mouth, Alphard,” Cygnus rounded on him. “You’re another disgrace, getting Lucretia together with that Prewett. She and you are better off marrying each other.”

He stormed out, leaving Alphard and Walburga standing in the parlor, facing each other. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, sister,” he said dully, “but I must get back to my Ministry duties.”

Once he was back at Black Manor, he took a seat at his desk, dropped his head in his arms over the schedule, and let out a low, guttural moan of despair. 

 

Forty-eight hours. No, forty-nine hours spent in the Newham flat, waiting for him. Alright, Stateira hadn’t only sat around; she’d cooked and searched the entire flat for anything of interest. 

The Dark Lord didn’t eat much, apparently, or didn’t cook, as his refrigerator was barer than Gran’s in 1943, when the Traverses were at their poorest. Stateira solved this by opening the kitchen window, which faced the kitchen of the muggle flat across the alley, and summoning ingredients from there. The muggles who lived there hadn’t much more than she, but going hungry was no longer an option for her. She’d been spoiled at Number 12. 

From Gran, she knew how to cook, and she made enough for two in case the Dark Lord graced her with his presence. He did not, so she wrapped the leftovers and stored them in the fridge. 

He’d taken her on Friday night. By Sunday afternoon, Stateira felt as if she would go mad from the constant stream of questions in her frenzied mind. Did he want her to stay? He must have—why else would he take her there? He could’ve slapped her in Dorea’s room. Yes, she was meant to stay there, but for how long? She decided to wait until Monday morning before trying to leave—he couldn’t have wanted her to miss Training, after all. 

In the meantime, out of sheer curiosity, Stateira went through the entire flat. The kitchen had the most basic of utensils: one pot, one pan, one of each dish and silverware, and an old stove. 

The bathroom and sitting room were completely bare save for necessities. The nightstand in the bedroom was empty, and only a few plain black robes hung in the wardrobe. Just as Stateira thought the Dark Lord didn’t have any possessions at all, or none in the flat at least, she struck gold in the desk. Three things of interest: a long scroll of parchment, a diary, and the Pensieve that had been in his office at Hogwarts. Wondering why he’d brought it here, she left it and gingerly unrolled the scroll. 

It might as well have been in hieroglyphics for all Stateira understood. Arithmancy was never her best subject, and this seemed to be one long equation sprinkled with runes and crossed-out Latin words. There were two on the bottom that hadn’t been crossed out: _contra mordem._

“Hmm,” Stateira mumbled to herself, sitting on the floor and inspecting the parchment. Was it some sort of invented spell? It was not surprising that Riddle invented Dark spells; he was certainly gifted enough to know how. Not for the first time, she admired and slightly envied his brilliance. She would be so thrilled to possess it. What had driven him to relentlessly pursue total control? Perhaps Stateira would find out from this diary labelled T.M. Riddle. 

Or perhaps not, as the diary was blank. He’d written not a single entry. She frowned in disappointment, flipping through it. Why even bother writing his name in it, then? And why keep it for so long? The thing was made in ‘42. 

Yet she did not want to put it back. Oddly, holding it in her hands, she felt the best she had in days. She stopped short of pressing it to her chest. Although she knew the Dark Lord would be furious, she wanted to write something on one of the diary’s pages, even if only _I love you. _But there wasn’t ink or a quill anywhere, so after several more minutes, she reluctantly placed it in the drawer in which she found it.__

____

__

By Sunday evening, Stateira ruled out any possibility of seeing the Dark Lord, so she made shepherd’s pie, singing loudly to the songs of _Hits of the 40s! _She’d dragged the record player to the table in the sitting room so she could hear the music.__

__Singing along in the kitchen was preferable to leaving it in the bedroom. Stateira felt a bit funny about the bedroom since the previous night, when she had lain on the bed and rubbed herself furiously, imagining the Dark Lord standing over her. She knew she should be upset over his treatment of her, which she was, but it also turned her on immensely. And he knew it. She wished desperately for him to come back and repeat it._ _

__“Oh, take me back to the good old days,” she sang loudly as she pulled the pie out of the oven. “To the blue skies, free of pain…”_ _

__The record started to skip as she set it on the stove to cool. Confused, she pulled the mitts off and raised her wand, ready to flick the needle back in place. She’d only played the record about three times; how could it be skipping already?_ _

__“Damn thing,” she muttered as she walked out of the kitchen. Then she looked up and stopped with a jolt._ _

__The Dark Lord stood next to the table, his finger holding the needle in place._ _

__“My Lord,” she gasped, dropping to her knees._ _

__He was frowning at her, but he didn’t seem upset—yet. She was torn between seizing him to plant a kiss on his mouth or dashing out of the flat, shepherd’s pie be damned. She did neither._ _

__“Are you making something?” he asked curiously._ _

__“Shepherd’s pie, sir,” she told him. “Would you like some?”_ _

__Instead of answering, he strode past her into the kitchen, as if he thought she’d been doing something other than cooking. While she stood awkwardly in the doorway, he peered at the pie on the stove and opened the fridge. He raised an eyebrow, holding the door open. “From where did you take all of this food?”_ _

__“I made it, my Lord. I, erm, summoned some things from across the alley.” She pointed at the window behind him._ _

__He glanced at it before letting out a low, genuine chuckle. At once, Stateira’s entire body relaxed as a bubbly feeling rose in her chest. That, however, dissipated a moment later as the smile dropped from his face and he locked eyes with her._ _

__In Stateira’s mind, the event from the previous day came into focus: she, reading the blank diary, holding it with the curious urge to press it against her chest._ _

__As soon as the Dark Lord withdrew from her mind, a chill overtook her and the music came back full-force, blasting painfully in her ears. Bizarrely, he still did not look angry._ _

__“Well, I see you’ve found my diary.”_ _

__Stateira was having a hard time swallowing. Dragging her sweaty palms across her apron—also hawked from across the alley—she nodded._ _

__“And you’ve felt my presence inside of it.” He stated this calmly and thoughtfully, as if he was unbothered by her snooping around._ _

__“Y—your presence, my Lord?’_ _

__“Oh, yes. I preserved my 16-year-old self in that diary. Had you written in it, my memory would have written back.”_ _

__“Really?” Forgetting her predicament, Stateira took a step closer, intrigued. “That is some impressive magic, my Lord!”_ _

__He nodded rather arrogantly, his eyes drifting away from her. “Indeed. That memory has a purpose—one day it will return to Hogwarts and reopen the Chamber of Secrets.”_ _

__The girl’s jaw dropped. “The—Chamber—?”_ _

__“Of Secrets, yes.” The Dark Lord was smiling now, pleased at her awe. “You’ve forgotten your first year already?”_ _

__“No,” she said quickly. “I thought—they told us it was that boy’s acromantula.”_ _

__He snorted. “That half-breed fool? No, Stateira. The Chamber can only be opened by Salazar Slytherin’s true heir. Come, I would rather show you than tell you. Memories have more impact than words, yes?”_ _

__Without waiting for a response, the Dark Lord went to the bedroom, took out the Pensieve from the drawer, and set it on the desk. Placing his wand against his temple, he pulled out a thin rope of shimmering white and dropped it into the Pensieve. As Stateira entered the room, she remembered that the handsome prefect of 1943 was given an award for special services to the school. She’d known that, but she never thought too deeply about it._ _

__He gestured to the tiny shimmering pool. “Ladies first.”_ _

__Slowly, she peered down into the bowl and the pool turned into a galleon-sized window depicting a scene: the first-floor girls’ bathroom at Hogwarts, or so she suspected. She leaned in, touched her forehead to the liquid, and went spiraling down._ _

__She landed next to the 16-year-old Riddle. The only two differences between him and the Dark Lord was that the latter seemed more confident, less angry, and had completed the transformation from boy to man._ _

__They watched Riddle walk up to one of the sinks, his eyes focused on one of the tap, and let out a hiss.  
At once, the floor rumbled, the sinks moved back, and a pitch-black tunnel appeared. Without wasting a moment, the boy jumped into the dark hole and the Dark Lord motioned for Stateira to follow. _ _

__After a long slide and stumbling around the dark, they followed Riddle down a dark, damp corridor to a large door with a cluster of stone snakes spread out, forming a circle._ _

__The same hiss came out of the boy’s mouth and the door opened. After more walking, they entered a cavernous room with stone serpents lined against the wall. At the opposite end, there was a statue of who she recognized as Salazar Slytherin. Teenage Riddle threw up his arms dramatically and emitted a series of varying hisses._ _

__“You’re a Parselmouth,” Stateira breathed, realizing belatedly. Beside her, the Dark Lord nodded._ _

__“Shh, here comes the star of the show.”_ _

__Behind Slytherin’s statue, a large, scaly grey snake with huge yellow eyes slithered out. Stateira caught herself before recoiling, clenching her arm and leg muscles as her heart beat in her throat. The thing was hideous, but it clearly adored the young Riddle, obeying his every command. As he led the basilisk down the corridor from whence he came, the Dark Lord began to speak._ _

__“This is the chamber Slytherin built to cleanse Hogwarts of all mudbloods. Isn’t it glorious? He left the basilisk egg down here, and it hatched and waited for the true heir to unleash it. My mother was a direct descendant…”_ _

__She was spinning, the scene was fading…then her feet touched the wooden floor of the bedroom._ _

__“I had to leave her behind,” the Dark Lord explained as soon as the room came into focus. “I couldn’t release her any longer once Dumbledore started to suspect me.”_ _

__Stateira frowned. “Her?”_ _

__“The basilisk,” he said patiently. “When that girl died, they wanted to close Hogwarts, so I told Dippet that stupid Hagrid’s acromantula was responsible, but Dumbledore didn’t believe me. He was always suspicious of me._ _

__“Once I sealed the Chamber for good, I made the diary so whomever corresponds with it can carry out Slytherin’s plan. I’ve got my own plan now…” He trailed off and looked past her, a triumphant gleam in his eye._ _

Stateira still didn’t understand the diary, but she was too awed to think on it any longer. “My Lord, you’re such a skilled wizard! A half-blood whose magical power surpasses the purest of blood! To find and open the Chamber at only 16… Say! Weren’t you also 16 when you…cast the Killing Curse?” She had stopped herself from saying _killing your father, _for that felt too accusatory.__

____

____

__“Yes, I was.”_ _

__The Dark Lord stared at Stateira for a moment before stepping forward and taking her into his arms. She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. For that minute, he was her professor again and the last tense 48 hours melted into the background, insignificant._ _

__He ran his long fingers through her hair as they kissed softly, spreading warmth through her skin, relaxing her. She pulled him closer, kissing him eagerly, passionately…until he abruptly pulled away._ _

__“My Lord, you’re always teasing me,” she said playfully but stopped cold at the glare that had returned to his face._ _

__“Am I?” he asked coolly, stepping away from her. He looked so angry, Stateira’s hands and knees started to shake._ _

__“Have—have I done something displeasing, my Lord?”_ _

__His face went blank but his eyes were still narrowed. “You only wish for me to take you to bed. I cannot just hold you?”_ _

__“Of course, my Lord,” she said, reaching for him. “I would love—"_ _

__He pushed her hands away and turned his back on her. “Let’s go to Grimmauld Place.”_ _

__Without taking her hand, he Disapparated alone. For a moment, Stateira thought she was going to cry: her eyes misted over and her lip trembled. Thankfully after a deep breath, the urge weakened. She took off her apron, slipped on her shoes, and followed._ _

__The Dark Lord was already in the parlor when Stateira arrived in the hallway. Cygnus, Orion, and Walburga were on their knees in front of their chairs, bowing to the tall figure in the middle of the room. When Stateira entered the parlor, she immediately copied them._ _

__“If you lot ever bother me with this rubbish again, you will all face the wrath of Lord Voldemort. I advise you not to try my patience.” He turned to his right and glowered at Stateira, who knew his patience with her in particular was worn to fine threads. Gone was patient Professor Riddle; the Dark Lord had a much shorter limit._ _

__He Disapparated and they all heaved sighs, climbing to their feet. Everyone in the room now loathed Stateira except for maybe Orion, who seemed indifferent to the entire incident. Now she could add the Dark Lord to the list._ _

__Keeping her face turned away, she went to Dorea’s room, where those goddamn Protocol sheets mocked her from the desk. They—and she—were due at Lysandra’s desk at 9:15 Monday morning—three hours away._ _

__Stateira finally let down the wall, bursting the dam. Tears poured down her cheeks as she lie on the bed, clutching the pillow with her chest heaving painfully. Again, her stupid, childish behavior disappointed him. He’d tried to love her and she resisted, thinking only of her primal urges. Wasn’t she better than that? Walburga, as awful as she was, may have been right by calling her a slag._ _

____

~**~ ~**~

Edwina was not stressed over this evening. After all, she was in sound mind; what did she have to worry about?

The interrogator scowled at her, giving the air a slight tinge of dread that clouded her mind. Perhaps she was not strong enough?

“Edwina Boot.” The interrogator, Flint, had a throaty voice and a long, deep wrinkle between his eyes, as if he’s been frowning at people since 1900. “Date of birth 14 November 1931. Correct?” 

“Yes, sir.” Edwina’s voice came out too meek, too unsteady. 

The other person in the room was a recorder, but her only purpose was to watch the enchanted quill and witness the evaluation. The written exam had been given the evening prior—50 questions long, measuring “mental health.” 

“Fresh out of Hogwarts, I see,” Flint remarked. 

Edwina was unsure if she was supposed to answer, so she gave a slight nod. 

“And you were at Hogwarts when Albus Dumbledore was a professor. Did you enjoy his classes?” 

“Very much, sir,” Edwina said earnestly. 

Flint surveyed her, perhaps wondering if she’d only said it because she felt as if she had to. A flash of her second year flitted through her mind in Transfiguration class. Dumbledore had praised her, saying she had “quite a knack for applying elemental theory.” Edwina had beamed, elated with a rare pride for herself. 

The quill was still scrawling even though no one had spoken for a full five minutes. Flint looked down at his notes, tongue poking out over his lip. “Your cohort, McElroy...she’s the first Slytherin we’ve ever had. Do you think she’s trustworthy?”

“Yes, sir,” Edwina said firmly, peeling her back from the seat. Sweat had begun to collect on her lower back and around her hairline. “She was my partner in Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Flint nodded, still looking at his notes. “I would like to trust her, but I’m a bit wary of her…family history.” 

Edwina shook her head. “She and her younger brother, Hollis, both have got their heads on straight. Alexander was just a bad egg, I reckon. Every family’s got one. My cousin, Artie—"

“You’re right, I suppose,” Flint cut her off coolly. “Well, Miss Boot, your exam results are satisfactory and Lysandra Bell speaks most highly of you, so you’ve got the go-ahead from me. Keep in mind that the second part of the evaluation takes place six months from now. We’ve got to be a hundred percent sure you can handle the job, see.”

“Yes, sir,” Edwina said, trying to keep the disbelief out of her voice. That was all? She’d expected a detective-style interrogation going back to her formative years. This had been more about Dumbledore and Stateira. Perhaps she should feel a bit put off that no one seemed to be concerned about Edwina herself, but it suited her fine. She was never one to enjoy the spotlight anyway. 

She was dismissed and sent back to Lysandra, who was jotting down notes from a record sheet. “How was it?” she asked. 

“I passed,” Edwina said, a slight grin forming on her face. 

“Congrats, love!” Lysandra exclaimed, rising and walking around the desk. To Edwina’s complete surprise, the woman wrapped her arms around her and gave her a squeeze. “I knew you’d be alright. I told Flint you’re the best I’ve gotten in years.”

Now Edwina was grinning broadly and blushing, feeling a rush of fondness toward Lysandra. She’d always been second-best to Stateira at Hogwarts and she still might be, but her superior favored Edwina. Although she had no ill will toward Stateira, she was quite pleased with herself for falling into Lysandra’s good graces so easily. 

_Finally_ , she thought as she headed to the Record Room at Lysandra’s request. _I belong, undoubtedly._

 

The evaluator had kept his eyes narrowed at her the entire hour. Had Achilles’ or Edwina’s evaluation lasted the whole hour? Stateira doubted it. Alexander’s notoriety stacked the cards against her in the Ministry just as much as in Hogwarts. No matter—she was used to it by now, and it gave her a bit of pleasure fooling them all into believing she was lily-white and pristine. 

After the basic questions, Flint went straight in with the Legilimency, but Stateira was fully prepared for that. Employing straight Occlumency would be a giveaway, so she had taught herself how to place a few memories in the frontal layers of her mind, ones that cast her and Alexander’s relationship in a not-so-favorable light. Examples included a brawl when they were both smaller, and him snapping at her at the House of Black, disrupting her game of Witch Hunt with Alphard. And, of course, the horror she felt seeing the Daily Prophet article revealing the capture of Dumbledore’s killer. That last memory was the strongest and most vivid, but only a very skilled Legilimens could decipher the true meaning behind her horror in that context. Helpfully, the automated quill wrote that she was horrified that her brother killed Dumbledore. 

“That must have been quite a shock for you,” Flint remarked in his gravelly voice. “Had he ever expressed his hatred of Dumbledore before that?”

“Not to me, sir,” Stateira replied, keeping her mind blank and voice cool to match his. “I suppose he wanted to keep family and politics separate.”

“And your parents? How do they feel about the Dark Arts?” 

As if on cue, the thin gold chain around her right wrist began to burn. The Dark Lord was calling a meeting, and this was a temporary way of gathering all of his Knights at once. They were to Apparate to Number 12 immediately, but there wasn’t any possible way Stateira could leave the evaluation if she wanted to stay a Trainee Auror. Ignoring the searing pain and rapid heartbeat in her ears, she took a swallow before answering. “They did not practice them, sir.”

Flint looked down, studying the sheets in front of him and giving Stateira a chance to take a deep breath unnoticed. The chain burned on, a band of red, searing skin encircling her wrist. 

“You must have been exemplary for your professors to speak of you so highly.” The sheets in front of him must have been the recommendation letters, which she knew without them she would not be there. Slughorn’s was the Golden Ticket in, due to his vast connections within the Ministry. 

After a few more inane questions and note-jotting, Stateira was approved to continue Auror Training. She knew she should see if Lysandra was still around—likely—and report to her, but she could not keep the Dark Lord waiting any longer. As soon as she was out of the Ministry, she ducked into Apparition Alley—the narrow alley next to the building—and went to Number 12. 

The front hall was filled with men, including Malfoy, Yaxley, Delmont, Lestrange, and Mulciber. They all turned to stare at the frantic Ministry-robed witch. “Is he here?” she barked at them, not caring if they could hear the dread and desperation in her voice. She’d missed the _entire meeting…_

Malfoy nodded and pointed to the dining hall. “Unless he Apparated already…”

Stateira did not answer. She dashed down the corridor and burst into the dining hall, hands shaking and heart pumping nervously. 

The Dark Lord sat at the head of the table alone, apparently contemplating something before she’d come in. 

“I’m so very sorry, my Lord,” she gasped, clutching her stomach, which had started to cramp. “I got held up at the Ministry. I’ve got to undergo a psychological evaluation, see, to be deemed fit to be an Auror, but had I known—"

“Why haven’t you told me about this psychological evaluation?” he asked in a low voice, rising from the table. 

Swell, she’d messed up _again._ After the incident following the memory of the Chamber, he’d been distant, only occasionally teaching her Occlumency. Meetings were held more frequently as followers both human and animal were accumulated, and he often Disapparated upon the close of each one. 

“I—I didn’t think it was of any importance to mention, my Lord,” she mumbled, eyes cast downward.

“I am the judge of that,” he told her firmly. “Is that clear?” 

“Yes, my Lord. I apologize.”

Abruptly, he seized her wrist, making her wince and emit a tiny squeal of pain. Ignoring that, he pulled her along as he walked toward the door. “Come.”

They passed Cygnus in the corridor, who gave the Dark Lord a quick bow and Stateira a glare behind his back. Even the portraits knew by then to avert their eyes as they passed. 

Once locked behind Dorea’s door, the Dark Lord commanded, “Undress and lie on the bed.”

“M—my Lord?” Stateira stammered. 

“Do I have to cast the Imperius Curse?” he snapped. “Undress and lie on the bed _now.”_

Her hands flew to her robe, pulling it off. Evidently, she was taking too long to unbutton her blouse, for he thrust his hands between the buttons and ripped it open. There was an odd gleam in his eyes, like he was not in full control of his actions. He pushed her roughly on the bed face-down, lifted her skirt, and slapped her hard on the bottom. 

“Ow!” she cried before she could stop herself, but he did not speak to her. As he entered her from behind, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back. Her eyes filled with tears as she hissed in pain, but she didn’t necessarily want it to end, either. It did abruptly two minutes later, and he Disapparated before she even pushed her skirt down. As she pushed herself off the bed into a standing position, fluid that was not her own trickled down her legs, seeping into her hose. 

“Wonderful,” she muttered, grabbing her nightgown and heading to the loo. Once she got herself changed and cleaned up, she returned to Dorea’s room and collapsed on the bed. The silk was cool against her cheek as she took long, even breaths. 

Contraceptive potion cost a fortune and could only be found in Knockturn Alley, but Stateira was not overly worried. Hadn’t Beryl Fawley said that the most difficult time to fall pregnant was right after her monthly? Stateira hoped with all her heart that it was true and not the opposite. She could imagine no greater devastation to her plan than an illegitimate, half-blood child. 

Although any child of Lord Voldemort would doubtless be brilliant, she thought, especially considering the newest bit of information he’d given her about his background. The heir of Slytherin, Parselmouth, opener of the Chamber of Secrets. How was he a direct descendant? Oh, yes, he’d told her—through his mother. 

His mother, an eternal sore spot for him, having died right after birth. Stateira remembered the first memory he’d shown her, only her: he, in front of his mother’s gravestone after killing his father, who left her. But she could not remember the name on the stone. 

“What in the name of Merlin is it?” she muttered to herself, feeling it desperately trying to crawl to her conscious mind. The surname was something short, plain, an ordinary word. Like “Riddle,” in fact. 

Then, just as she’d given up, eyes closed, she drifted off and it came to her: _Gaunt._

 

After a hearty congratulations from Lysandra, Stateira carried out her task of report-copying steadily until lunch, when she was given a half-hour break. Instead of leaving the office or heating up a plate in A-95, the break room, she went directly to the Record Room. She knew Edwina and Achilles would not be there, as Rachel had taken Achilles to another department, and in her absence Edwina was assigned the wand reports, as they were due in Magical Law Enforcement by three o’clock. 

Stateira wasted no time climbing the ladder to the G section. There were over a dozen files under the name Gaunt, most of them Irishmen. Eventually, she found the name that clicked the memory into place: Gaunt, Merope, born in 1907 and died in 1926. Cause of death: unknown; nothing about an heir. She had lived in a village called Little Hangleton with her father, Marvolo, and brother, Morfin. Her folder was white. 

Marvolo’s was grey, since he’d been arrested twice. His second had landed him in Azkaban for six months. Stateira noted that he’d died shortly after being released in 1929. 

His son’s folder was black—he must have committed an Unforgivable Curse. Yet when Stateira opened the folder, she noticed something odd: only the first page was there, listing Morfin Gaunt’s name, age, location, blood status, and brief family history. He was still alive in Azkaban, where he’d been since 1943, but there was no record of criminal activity in the folder. 

Bewildered, Stateira flipped the sheet over, absurdly expecting to see more. The folder was black and Gaunt was in Azkaban; surely he had to have broken wizarding law? Only the first page was there. 

The only explanation was that someone had removed it. The cases under current investigation were kept in the Auror’s office, and they often did not keep the whole folder. From this, Stateira deduced that there was an open case on Morfin Gaunt. But why investigate a wizard that had been in Azkaban for the past six years?

Carefully, Stateira placed the folder back on the shelf, making sure to keep it intact. She was going to find out who was investigating Morfin Gaunt and why. Lord Voldemort would not be pleased if he found out Stateira was poking around his family history, but she had been in Auror Training for six months. It was difficult, at that point, to avoid thinking like an Auror.

~**~ ~**~ 


	12. Spring 1950

With 1950 brought hope and an optimism not felt since before Grindelwald’s return. As this side of Europe enjoyed a rare, still peace, muggles and wizards alike were rolling up their sleeves, heading out into the warm air, and rebuilding. The music was quicker-paced and cheerful, and conversations were lighter. Even the poorest of the poor felt the relieved atmosphere, like a thick, damp, grey mist had lifted. Absent of the fear and dread the last couple of decades brought, people began to plan for the far future. 

The Dark Lord and his Knights had ceased all destructive activity for the time being. The Ministry, particularly the Auror Office, was wary of the silence, expecting an attack any moment. When none came after several months, the tension started to dissipate. 

Now that the three Trainee Aurors had passed the six-month mark, they were required to take two evening classes, Concealment and Disguise and Stealth Training. Edwina, who had above-average proficiency with Tranfiguration, excelled in the former, while Achilles, quiet and sharply observant, enjoyed the latter. When it came to the optional Occlumency, which all three opted to take, Stateira surpassed them both. 

Their instructor, Mary Beth Ludlow, was a short, skinny witch with wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an encouraging attitude. She clearly hadn’t any high expectations, because she was quite shocked at Stateira’s ability. 

“Have you ever practiced Occlumency before?” she asked incredulously during their one-on-one session. For the first half of the class, Madam Ludlow taught theory, and the second half was spent counseling individually on practice, while the other two completed quizzes or attempted to keep their minds clear. She rotated the one-on-one to be fair to all three. 

“Yes, madam,” Stateira told her. “I had lessons at Hogwarts with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

“Oh, is that Galatea Merrythought? Merlin, she has been there for quite a while. Since 1909, I reckon. I’ve not heard of her giving private lessons; is that upon request?”

Stateira shook her head. “No madam, not Professor Merrythought. NEWT classes are now being taught by a professor named Tom Riddle. He started a few years ago.”

“Hmm.” Ludlow frowned and tapped her chin with a short, spindly index finger. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to recall anything about him.”

“He won an award as a student in ’43,” Stateira said helpfully. “For special services to Hogwarts. He discovered a beast hidden by a former student that killed a young girl.” Her voice was tinged with pride, as if she were bragging of a son’s achievements. 

Ludlow nodded, a distant look in her eyes. “Yes, I remember hearing that also, but only vaguely. Everything was a bit of a blur in the early forties, you see; we were swamped with tracking Grindelwald and his army.” She shifted her eyes to Stateira, no doubt thinking about the Magic Army, specifically Alexander. “Alright!” She clapped her hands suddenly, startling Stateira. “Let’s continue on Thursday. Send Boot in here, will you please?” 

Stateira nodded and rose from the desk. Individual sessions were conducted in Ludlow’s office, A-110. Edwina and Achilles were in A-109, where theory was held. 

Although she was proficient in Occlumency, Ludlow’s lessons were useful, for she taught her how to mask and manipulate memories, like the Dark Lord said he would. The Dark Lord, however, had not given Stateira a single lesson in 1950. 

He’d only called one meeting in late February, and it was only to receive updates from Malfoy, Mulciber, and the Black cousins. Stateira, who had still not been assigned a task, sat on his right side, head inclined and hands folded in her lap. The meeting had lasted only 15 minutes. Once they’d all been dismissed, the Dark Lord had snatched Stateira’s arm and taken her to Dorea’s room. There, the same sequence of events the previous time they’d been alone together occurred: he ordered her to undress, pushed her to the bed, and made her cry out in both pain and pleasure. She knew she should be grateful for any bit of his attention, but she missed his soft touch, his words of praise and gentle kisses. She wished more than anything to win them back. 

On the bright side, the absence of the Dark Lord allowed her to come up with strategies to carry out her own investigation. 

Opportunity struck in mid-March. During Stealth Tracking, the tea Stateira had drank was pushing to get out, so she excused herself to the bathroom. She thought someone would have to accompany her, but the instructor had nodded and continued discussing the various types of magical traces. 

As she walked down the hall, she noticed the door to Lysandra’s office was open a crack. Most of the time it was locked and only her wand was the key, but the door was faulty. Occasionally, it would bounce slightly from the frame and would have to be slammed shut. If Lysandra was in a hurry to a scene, she wouldn’t check if it was properly closed. 

Now that Magical Britain was relatively calm, Lysandra was often at her desk working on existing cases. Stateira had already searched an Auror’s desk: Brown’s, when he went to grab tea and left his desk unattended. She’d cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself and went through his cases. The one she was looking for was not there. 

Lysandra’s desk was much tidier than Brown’s, although her cases were hidden away in a box under the desk by the wall. Stateira could flip through them rather easily, as they were in alphabetical order. The surnames were on the upper-right hand corner of each page. Lysandra was working on several cases at once, and there were multiple pages of each case. Abernathy, Collough, Fried…Stateira’s breath caught in her throat. There it was—Gaunt, Morfin. 

“Merlin,” she whispered to herself. She didn’t think she would find it that quickly. 

Without wasting a second, she peeled the paper off the stack on the desk and pressed a blank scroll against it. After taking care to slide the folder neatly in its exact spot between Fried and Llewellyn, she closed the box under Lysandra’s desk. She was wearing hose with a waist, so she had no choice but to lift her robe and stuff the scroll between the elastic and her stomach. 

Her bladder was starting to ache, but it was too late to use the toilet; any longer and suspicion would arise from someone in the class. She returned quietly and no one seemed to have noticed her absence. 

Later at Number 12, Stateira unrolled the parchment and studied the first page of Gaunt’s convictions. There were definitely more pages, for the bottom paragraph under arrest number two was cut off in mid-sentence. No matter—now that Stateira knew the record was in Lysandra’s custody, the task was narrowed down considerably. 

_Gaunt, Morfin_

_30 June 1922: Attack on a muggle, breaking Statute of Secrecy._  
_Used unidentified hex on muggle passing by house._  
_Fine: 60 gal._

_24 July 1924: Failure to pay fine, attacked Ministry Official._  
_Used stinging hex on Matthew Greenhouse of Mag. Law Dept._  
_Fine: 120 gal._

_4 August 1925: Attack on a muggle, breaking Statute of Secrecy, failure to pay fine._  
_Used stinging hex on muggle riding on horse_

The Dark Lord and his uncle had something in common with their ancestor, Salazar Slytherin. They all hated muggles. However, that did not explain why Gaunt was currently sitting in Azkaban, since he’d been sent there in 1943. Presumably, that was on the next page. 

With a sigh, Stateira rolled up the parchment, tucked it under her arm, and poked her head into the corridor. Cygnus’ yelling reached across the house to the front hall and up the stairwell. He’d only just started, so he was unlikely to stomp to his room in the next fifteen minutes. 

Stateira crept down the corridor to the first door in front of the stairwell. She’d never been in Cygnus and Druella’s room and she never wanted to be again, although she would have to in the future. Not that there was an issue with the room itself; it was rather beautiful like Dorea’s except bigger and with more elaborate furniture. Green and gold striped wallpaper gave the room a palace-like feel. 

There was a tall, thin bookshelf situated between two windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, showing the London streets, adorned with heavy black curtains. Stateira ducked to the bottom shelf and pulled out the heaviest book. Dust smeared onto the parchment as she folded it in half and stuck it between the pages. A foul taste filled her mouth as she imagined Cygnus entering her room and found her on the floor in her nightgown. She shoved the book back on the shelf and scuttled out of there. 

Once safely back in Dorea’s room, Stateira evened out her breathing and took out the Stealth Tacking worksheets from her bag. Although her mind was on Morfin Gaunt, she completed the sheets rather quickly. 

The decision to hide the copy in Cygnus’ room stemmed from her fear of getting expelled from Training. Cygnus was less likely to be caught or questioned, as he was much higher-ranked than she. And the copy could not be destroyed yet. There was a strong possibility of needing it in the future.

~**~ ~**~

_2 April 1950_  
 _Dear Edwina,_

_Hello there, long time no correspondence! I’ve been rather busy applying for NEWTs and applying for Auror Training. I’ve got letters from Riddle and Slughorn, so I should be a shoo-in. I’m still a bit skeptical, though, as I haven’t accomplished much outside of academics. I’m not much of a dueler, but Riddle wrote that I “use an effective combination of creativity and calculation,” so that’s fairly good, yeah?_

_I feel like a prat speaking ill of Riddle after he wrote such a wonderful recommendation, but his class is…odd, to say the least. We’re learning a new jinx or hex every other day, and he doesn’t seem to care if we know the counter-curses. He teaches them, of course, but those who break them earn the most points. It isn’t as if I think he’s a Dark wizard, heavens no, I simply…well, I don’t know what to make of it, to be quite honest._

_I’ve been thinking of inviting Callista to the DA, but I fear she’s not mature enough to hear such grim topics. I must admit that without any activity from the Dark Lord, we haven’t got much to discuss, so we practice a multitude of Defense spells. Fleamont Potter’s Shield Charm is nearly impenetrable; it truly is remarkable! What on Earth do you think the Dark Lord is up to, by the way? Merrythought says he’s not been captured, but why is he no longer causing a ruckus? It’s a blessing, of course, but also a curse. I try not to think that he’s lying dormant, waiting to strike._

_Hogwarts is Hogwarts—tension between Slytherin and Gryffindor is still here, but it’s thankfully died down a bit. How is Training? I bet you’re quite busy with those classes. Occlumency sounds like a real challenge. I’ve been reading up on it; I’m so very excited to learn it! Legilimency would be useful, too, I suppose, but it feels like an invasion of privacy. It just doesn’t sit well in my stomach, you know? Although Dumbledore was allegedly a highly-skilled Legilimens, but Merrythought said the Dark Lord is rumored to be a master of it as well. Hence why I’m so eager to learn Occlumency. Merrythought is giving us lessons on clearing our mind, which is the foundation, yeah? I find it difficult to clear it completely. I can’t simply turn off my thoughts at the drop of a hat! I must try, since that is practically a requirement to be an Auror._

_Damn it, I’m going to be late to Charms. Write back soon!_

_Yours,_  
_Antonia_

_16 April 1950_  
_Dear Edwina,_

_I’m unsure if you’ve gotten my last letter or if you plan on answering it, but regardless, I’ve got something to tell you._

_Last Wednesday at the DA meeting, I was speaking with Amelia Ackerson about Riddle’s class and Merrythought overheard us. To say it mildly, she was utterly appalled at his curriculum. She threatened to go to Dippet and I’m unsure if she has already, but I am sure that she isn’t simply going to forget about it. Riddle hasn’t acted different toward me or in general, yet. Edwina, I can’t explain it, but I’m rather terrified to get on Riddle’s bad side. What if he is Dark? What if he’s a Knight? He’s so skilled; I can’t imagine the Dark Lord would pass him by. I could be overreacting, but I can’t shake the feeling that Riddle will not be pleased._

_There’s something else: Hollis told me—alright, he let it slip by mistake—that Riddle sent a letter to Stateira over the summer, and since then she hasn’t been home. He plans to reach out and see if she’ll let on anything, but he doubts it, since they’ve been fighting. Has she spoken of him at all? I can’t imagine he’d be Dark if he’s pursuing an Auror. Something strange is going on, though._

_Please write back as soon as possible. I think I just need a bit of assurance. If it sounds odd to you, perhaps I’ll talk to Merrythought._

_Yours,_  
_Antonia_

_17 April 1950_  
_Dear Antonia,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t answered your last letter; I’ve been terribly busy with this intense Training schedule. As wonderful and immersive as it is, it’s been quite an adjustment. Some days I feel as though even sleeping is a waste of valuable time._

_Dear, please try not to panic. Professor Riddle doesn’t have a bad side; he’s very patient. I’m quite sure it wouldn’t be a problem if Dippet told him to change the curriculum a bit. After all, it’s not as if you complained about it. Stateira had mentioned once that Merrythought seems to have a bit of a grudge against Riddle. Perhaps because he favors the Slytherins, which is a bit unfair, I’ll admit. But he did write you that recommendation letter, so he shall not think poorly of you anytime soon._

_Also remember: Riddle was Head Boy along with Lysandra Bell, the Head Auror. I’m sure she, of all people, would know if he was Dark, but he is not, otherwise he’d be in Azkaban by now, yeah? I highly doubt he is a Knight. How could he be, living at Hogwarts? We don’t even know if the Dark Lord is around anymore._

_I wish I could give you more reassurance, but I really must get started on my coursework. Just think of your acceptance letter than must be coming any day now. Only a few more months until we’re both in the Auror Office, working alongside each other!_

_Yours,_  
_Edwina_

_20 April 1950 _  
_Dear Stateira,__ _

__

_Since our relationship has been in the toilet lately, I’m going to get straight to the point. Longbottom has this idea that Riddle is a follower of the Dark Lord. Now, I really don’t think that’s true at all, but I promised her I’d reach out and to “verify” that he’s not a Dark wizard or something of that nature. I doubt you’ll answer this—in fact, I hope you don’t. There is the reason for this letter. I prefer we never speak again unless you’re willing to cast aside the prejudice we’ve been taught._

_By the way, thanks for telling Gran I’m a blood traitor. Mum’s gone back to bed again, and I spend most of the holidays with our so-called blood traitor father. So your plan to convert me has failed fantastically._

_Hollis_

__Stateira rolled her eyes and crumpled up the letter. “You’re very welcome, dear brother,” she muttered, poking the ball with her wand. After burning the parchment, she cleaned up the ashes and slipped the folder of worksheets in her bag. A very long day at the Ministry stretched ahead. She did not wish to dwell on her brother’s negative feelings._ _

__This day, as it so happened, brought the next opportunity to sneak into Lysandra’s office. On the way to A-89, where Stealth Tracking was held, Stateira noticed that the door to the office was left ajar for the night. A quick trip to the “bathroom” after finishing the exam early yielded another page of Gaunt’s file._ _

__After another long two hours, she was at Number 12, ready to read. The muggle on a horse Gaunt had hexed was a young man named Tom Riddle._ _

__“Hmm, interesting,” she remarked to herself. She sat at the desk, ignoring her worksheets as usual. Outside in the hall, she heard the rolling of a linen cart._ _

__“Kreacher!” she called. “Get me some tea!”_ _

__“Yes, miss,” the elf said in his raspy voice. There was muttering under his breath; since Walburga hated Stateira, so did Kreacher. As long as the thing obeyed her, she couldn’t care less what went on in its tiny brain._ _

Back to Morfin Gaunt, who evidently held a grudge against who could only be the Dark Lord’s father. Next arrest: 17 July 1943. _Use of Killing Curse on three muggles._ As Stateira’s eyes passed over the names of the muggles, her heartbeat sped up and her breath froze in her lungs. Tom and Mary Riddle, along with their son, Tom Riddle the second, were murdered in their home just outside of Little Hangleton. Stateira knew what they, their house, and their deaths had looked like. She could picture it vividly; she’d been there. Only it was in the memory of Tom Riddle the third, not Morfin Gaunt like the file said. 

She nodded, placing the puzzle pieces together. Riddle had murdered his father and framed his uncle. Who would suspect that this old muggle-hating nutter wouldn’t kill a muggle he’d previously attacked? But the puzzle was missing a key piece—why would Lysandra look into this any further? Perhaps she suspected that Gaunt hadn’t done it? But the next line said _full confession given…_

__

_Sentence: Life in Azkaban._ The word Azkaban was circled and a date was scrawled underneath: _29/5/50._

Stateira frowned. What on Earth did _that_ mean? Why would a future date be on there? Regardless, she had to get her hands on the rest of that file and figure it out as soon as possible. If Lysandra was digging deeper into Gaunt’s case, there was a large possibility of her discovering the true caster of the Killing Curse. 

__It was Thursday and the next class was on the following Tuesday. Could she wait that long? What was the probability of Lysandra leaving her office open again? Not very high. No, Stateira had to think of an alternative, and fast—_ _

__SLAM! She jumped violently, nearly toppling off the chair, as the door was thrown open so hard, it bounced off the wall. She turned, ready to snarl at Kreacher, and saw Cygnus advancing toward her, his gait unsteady._ _

__She swiped at her wand but it had rolled off the desk. Luckily, Cygnus was too drunk to take out his wand, but then he stepped on hers just as she dove for it and picked it up._ _

_“Incarcerous!”_ The incantation was slightly slurred, but ropes snaked out of her wand all the same. As they tightened around her wrists and legs, Stateira glowered not at Cygnus, but at the wand in his hand, feeling slightly betrayed, as if it could’ve turned on him. 

__“Cygnus, wait a moment, darling.” Her voice came out calm and steady despite her body fighting the urge to lunge at him. “This is a bad idea. Remember how angry the Dark Lord was last time? You don’t want to feel his wrath, do you?”_ _

__That did not deter him. Of course it didn’t, since the git hadn’t felt the Dark Lord’s wrath nearly as much as she had. He dropped to his knees, gripped the front of her robes, and tried to kiss her on the mouth, but she threw all her force into turning away. His tongue pressed against her cheek. “Teasing me again, darling? We can’t have that—”_ _

_“Ahem.”_

__Kreacher stood in the doorway, holding a teacup and plate. “Your tea, miss.” Behind him, faint footsteps were ascending the stairs._ _

_“Diffindo,”_ Cygnus muttered before tossing her wand on the rug next to her. As he walked out, he kicked the elf, spilling tea on the floor. Kreacher yelped but nonetheless set the tea carefully on the desk. Hunched, head bowed, he turned back around and walked out of the room. 

__“Thank you,” Stateira whispered, trying not to imagine what Cygnus would have done if he hadn’t been interrupted._ _

__Kreacher stiffened, stopping in place for a moment. Then, as if he hadn’t heard, he disappeared into the corridor._ _

__“There you are, little Kreacher of mine,” Walburga’s voice hissed from just outside the room. “Go downstairs and prepare Druella’s potion.”_ _

__“Yes, my mistress,” Kreacher squeaked._ _

__Walburga walked past Dorea’s room, stopped, and peered in at Stateira, who had finally risen to her feet. “What are you doing?”_ _

_Fighting off your unscrupulous brother_ , she wanted to say, but she merely shook her head. “Nothing.” She’d wasted enough energy on the insane Black siblings. More pressing matters lie ahead. 

__

__Frustratingly enough, Lysandra had been assigned a new case of an Imperius Curse performed in Surrey on a muggle, which left her office door locked for the majority of the next two weeks. The following week passed, and Stateira decided she had to take further action. Every night after completion of her worksheets, Stateira sat at Dorea’s desk, keeping an eye out for any unwanted guests, as she complied a list of what could take place on May 25th:_ _

_-Some hearing for a re-trial_  
_-Gaunt receives the Kiss_

__After all, if Alexander was sentenced with it, shouldn’t he be?_ _

_-?????_

__A valid reason was beyond her. The date was fast approaching, and she had to know if it had to do with the Riddle murder._ _

__Another muscle-twitching week passed. Stateira was hyper-aware of Lysandra Bell’s every move outside the office. The closed door of A-102 haunted her dreams. Then finally, blessedly, a golden opportunity floated down from the heavens. The Head Auror went to meet her new boyfriend, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, in the Ministry dining hall for tea and left her office door slightly ajar._ _

__Noon was not the best time of day to sneak into an office, but Stateira did not have the luxury of being choosy. Casting a Disillusionment Charm on herself. She crept into the office straight to the box under the desk._ _

__The file was on the top—the Surrey muggle case was in the final stage, so Lysandra had time to revisit Gaunt's. Reaching around the desk, Stateira felt around until she caught a scroll in between two fingers. Working fast, she copied as much as possible. The next two pages were a transcribed interview with a man named Bob Ogden regarding an encounter with Gaunt. The very last page was a piece of parchment with Lysandra’s script, which was next to unintelligible. Stateira could barely make out the first line:_ _

_Tom Marvolo Riddle—Marvolo Gaunt—Morfin Gaunt—Slytherin descendants—_

__“Erm, Lysandra?”_ _

__The sudden noise startled Stateira so severely, she knocked the top of her head against the desk. Blinking away stars and trying not to grunt with pain, Stateira pulled out her wand and pointed it from beneath the desk._ _

_“Confundo,”_ she whispered. 

__Edwina’s Mary Janes turned around and calmly walked out without a word, leaving the door open._ _

__Once Stateira had all she needed, she crept out of the office, careful to leave everything exactly as Lysandra had left it. Perfect timing—she could hear her laughing with Glenda at the front desk._ _

__She lifted the spell from Edwina, and the girl blinked at her in sudden awareness. “Goodness, I’m very exhausted,” she said faintly, hand reaching up to her eye to rub it. “I reckon all these classes are getting to me?”_ _

__Stateira nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Yes, it’s rather intense, isn’t it?”_ _

__Still looking slightly dazed, Edwina left the bathroom. Stateira felt a bit bad for Confunding her friend, but her mission was more important. As punishment, the remainder of the day passed as slowly as a week._ _

__Calpurnia had once told her and Hollis that similar events come in threes. Two misfortunes will bring one more, as well as two opportunities bringing a third. Stateira’s luck, after the well running dry the past few weeks, flowed into Friday, when the chain around her wrist burned. The Dark Lord was holding a meeting for the first time in three months._ _

__She hadn’t stashed the copies in Cygnus’ room for lack of time, but it was just as well. She needed to present them as proof. She wished to retrieve the first, but she ran out of time._ _

__The meeting was short—Malfoy, Lestrange, Mulciber, Yaxley, and Cygnus updated the Dark Lord about their task. Stateira, who hadn’t been assigned a task, kept her eyes on her hands, head bowed._ _

__She’d only caught a glimpse out of the side of her eye at him. As confident and handsome as ever, he had an air of frustration about him, although he kept his voice pleasant. His responses were clipped and he refused all drinks; she knew he planned on getting out of there as soon as possible._ _

__“Abraxas, please stay behind for a moment,” he said after concluding the meeting._ _

__“Yes, my Lord.”_ _

__Stateira had no choice but to file out with the others. Slightly nauseated at the prospect of spending more time with Cygnus, et al, she hung back, flattening herself against the wall between the parlor and corridor to the kitchen. This spot was close enough to catch anyone coming out of the dining hall but far enough away to avoid being accused of eavesdropping._ _

__This did not exclude her from listening to the conversation in the parlor, however, when she heard her name leave Yaxley’s mouth._ _

__“Where’s McElroy?”_ _

__“Disapparated upstairs, I reckon,” Orion Black answered._ _

__“Why?” This voice was unfamiliar._ _

__“Probably to escape Cygnus pawing at her, eh?”_ _

__“Shut up,” Cygnus snapped as chuckles passed around the room. “Come on, then, let’s go to the courtyard…”_ _

__The door to the dining hall opened suddenly, and before Stateira could make out the figure passing by in the shadows, it was in the front corridor. Then the light from the chandelier shone down on a head of dark wavy hair and black robes._ _

__“My Lord,” Stateira said softly as she passed the parlor, reaching her hand out in desperation. She dropped it as he turned and his dark eyes met hers. For a moment, she froze, overcome with longing. Thankfully, she snapped out of that quickly, for every second was important._ _

__“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have something urgent to discuss with you.” Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Regarding the Ministry,” she added._ _

__He stared at her for a moment as a flash of Lysandra’s desk and the shuffling of parchment briefly popped into view. Without speaking, he took her arm and Apparated to Dorea’s room._ _

__“What is it?” he asked in a slightly impatient tone, but she refused to dwell on it. With shaking hands, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out the copies. As she walked back over to him, she took a deep breath and plunged into explanation._ _

__“My Lord, Lysandra Bell is investigating the murders of y—Tom Riddle and his parents in 1943. A wizard named Morfin Gaunt was apprehended and sent to Azkaban for life. It says here that he gave a full confession, but Bell doesn’t seem to be satisfied with that. Here she interviewed a Bob Ogden, the former Head of Magical Law Enforcement, who had investigated a previous altercation between Gaunt and Riddle in 1925.”_ _

__She paused to catch a breath and continued without waiting for a response. “Lysandra’s notes point to the fact that not only does she not believe Gaunt is guilty, but that she suspects you. She’s tracked down your heritage through Slytherin’s line, which means that she may also suspect who opened the Chamber, but there’s nothing about that here. See here, this date? It’s in two weeks and—”_ _

__“Alright, Stateira, slow down a bit,” the Dark Lord said impassively. “Let me see those.”_ _

__She handed the copies to him and stood with her hands clasped behind her back, fighting the urge to fidget. Her mouth was trying to form saliva with no avail. All of the moisture had seemingly diverted to her palms instead._ _

__After reading through the notes, he looked up and met her eyes once more. “How did you discover this?”_ _

__“Well.” She swallowed hard. “I came across Gaunt’s file and realized there were a few pages missing. I found them in Bell’s desk and since I, erm, know who actually committed the murders, I realized that she must be digging deeper. Why else would she go through all of that trouble for a closed case?”_ _

__The question was rhetorical and the Dark Lord took it as such. He placed the copies on the desk and set them on fire. Stateira twitched, as they were directly on top of her incomplete worksheets, but the fire burned much quicker and left no residue._ _

__“Alright, here is what you must do,” he said. “You shall take the original notes and Ogden’s interview and destroy them as soon as possible along with any copies you have made.”_ _

__Immediately, Stateira thought of the first page in Cygnus’ bedroom. She swore to get her hands on it that night. As for the file… “My Lord…Lysandra will know right away that the file—”_ _

__“Do not worry about Lysandra,” he told her firmly. “I will deal with her. All I need from you is her address.”_ _

__She nodded and looked away, not knowing what to expect after the big reveal. Above all else, she’d proven herself trustworthy._ _

__“Stateira, how did you come across Morfin Gaunt’s record?”_ _

__He knew the answer; he wanted her to say it. She’d been afraid of this, but it had been inevitable. “I searched for it, my Lord.”_ _

__“And why would you do that?” His tone was not quite neutral but revealed nothing significant._ _

__Slowly, Stateira raised her eyes to his. Then she blinked, lost her nerve, looked at her feet, and tried again._ _

__“I was curious about your family history…about you,” she said at last. “Perhaps I was in the wrong for not informing you, and I beg your forgiveness if I am. The better I know you, the better I can serve you.”_ _

__Again, her courage faltered. She lowered her eyes and ducked her head, not daring to breathe._ _

__“Well, it seems as if I’ve gotten quite lucky,” he said with traces of satisfaction in his voice. She lifted her head and saw that he was smiling. “Not only an Auror but the most intelligent, beautiful, and loyal of them all.”_ _

__Her hand covered her mouth as tears filled her eyes, and her body warmed with pleasure. At last she had earned her Lord’s praise. It felt better than she’d imagined._ _

__He took her hand and led her to the bed. She would have done anything he wanted, but he merely sat on the edge and pulled her onto his lap. Sighing in relief, she buried her face into his neck and clung to him._ _

__“I know I haven’t been attentive as of late,” he whispered as he stroked her hair. “I’ve been held up at Hogwarts with some type of…nuisance, and it hasn’t been resolved yet.”_ _

__“May I help, my Lord?” she mumbled into the warm skin of his neck. Against her cheek, she could faintly feel his pulse, which soothed her tremendously._ _

__He pulled her tighter against him, and his lips pressed against her forehead. “Not now, darling. Let’s take care of Lysandra Bell first.”_ _

__“Yes, my Lord.” Her eyes closed as all the tension from the previous few months drained out of her muscles. In his arms, she felt safe, truly at home. For others, it was a house or a building or a castle. For Stateira, home was in the Dark Lord’s arms, whether they were in a luxurious bedroom at Number 12 or an old, wooden ship in a stormy sea._ _

__She must have fallen asleep, for she was being laid down on the bed. Her eyes fluttered open, but they wouldn’t stay. As the silk sheet enveloped her, she reached her arms out for him. “Stay…”_ _

__His cool hand brushed her hair off her face. “I can’t,” he said softly before he kissed her lips. “I love you.”_ _

__“I love you,” Stateira murmured, but he was already Disapparating. A small smile stretched her lips as she turned over and clutched a pillow to her chest. She was replaying the past few minutes over and over until she drifted off to sleep, worksheets and file copies be damned._ _

__

__Alphard was in his usual place at his desk organizing the Minister’s schedule when his mother stormed in._ _

__“Get downstairs this instant,” she spat. “Do not even think of disobeying.”_ _

__Puzzled, Alphard jumped to his feet and followed her down the marble staircase. Footsteps heavy with trepidation, he entered the grand dining hall, where his father, Orion, and Walburga sat at the far end of the table. Pollux was in his usual spot at the head in a high-backed leather seat, glaring at Alphard._ _

__Irma gave Alphard a nudge before leaving. Orion and Walburga were still eating, but on the table in front of Pollux was not a plate but a letter._ _

__“Sit down, Alphard.”_ _

__He took the seat next to Orion as his stomach clenched. By the expression on his father’s face, he knew no good news was coming._ _

__“Your cousin has announced her engagement to that Prewett boy.” His words were icy and biting. “His parents are known muggle-lovers.”_ _

__Alphard hadn’t an idea how to respond. He couldn’t see what Lucretia’s engagement had to do with him. Unless…_ _

__“If it hadn’t been for you, Lucretia would have found a suitable husband.”_ _

“What?” Alphard burst out. “She would’ve had to marry _me_!” 

__“And what’s wrong with that? I didn’t teach you to appraise a woman by her appearance, did I?”_ _

__“It’s not about Lucretia’s appearance.” Alphard knew he should clamp his mouth shut, but he couldn’t seem to stop speaking. “It is about the pair of us being first cousins!”_ _

__Walburga and Orion stared mutinously at him while Pollux’ mustache twitched in rage. “You dare speak of your sister in such an ill manner?” he hissed. “Cygnus and Walburga place nothing higher than maintaining the Black family honor! While you run around with these blood-traitors, tainting our prideful women with them. You are forbidden to see Lucretia until the wedding, and do not dare consort with that Prewett any longer.”_ _

__“Father, I am an adult—”_ _

__“I don’t care! Boy, do you think you would be anywhere near the Minister without me? This is my house, and if you don’t like it, you can get out!”_ _

__“And don’t even think about going to my house!” Walburga added imperiously, puffing out her chest and flicking a curl of hair over her shoulder. Orion stared at his plate as if he wished to disappear._ _

__Alphard balled his hands into fists, stood, and stalked out of the dining hall. He knew he couldn’t trust himself to hold his tongue around his father for the time being, so he went to his room, collected some clothing in a bag, and Disapparated._ _

__Disregarding his sister’s unwelcoming statement, he landed in the front hall of Number 12, simply because he had nowhere else to go._ _

__Cygnus flew in from the parlor, possibly but hopefully not expecting the Dark Lord. That was the last thing Alphard needed to deal with right now. “Merlin’s pants, Alphard, you startled me. What’s happened?”_ _

__“Got into a row with Father,” he muttered._ _

__His brother eyed the bag over Alphard’s shoulder. “What have you done?”_ _

“I haven’t _done_ anything,” Alphard said hastily. “We had a disagreement about Lucretia’s betrothal. He seems to think it’s my fault." 

__“It is your fault,” Cygnus said bluntly. “Prewett’s reputation is in the shitter, and now you’ve gone and dragged ours down, too.”_ _

__Alphard opened his mouth to retort, but just then there was a loud crack and Stateira McElroy appeared in navy blue Auror robes with a small smile on her face._ _

__“Oh, hello, Alphard!” she said brightly, beaming at him. “What a pleasant surprise! I keep hoping I’ll bump into you at the Ministry, but I suppose you’re always at the top.” She winked at him. Cygnus threw him an envious look, but she turned to him and greeted him just as cheerfully. “Good evening, Cygnus!”_ _

__Before either of them could speak, she flounced up the stairs, humming to herself as the two men stared after her, bewildered._ _

__“What on Earth has gotten into her?” Cygnus asked._ _

__Alphard shrugged. “Listen, brother, do you mind if I stay here for a bit?”_ _

__“You’ve got to ask Walburga, not me.” They started down to the parlor for tea. “You know I don’t give a toss. I must warn you—beware of Druella. She’s pregnant and has gone even more mental, which I didn’t think was even possible.”_ _

__“You’re going to be a father?” Alphard asked loudly before Cygnus shushed him. “Why haven’t you told Mother and Father?”_ _

__He gestured for the other to take a seat on the sofa. Kreacher brought them two cups of tea and set them down on the small ornate table between the sofa and Cygnus’ velvet chair. “Well, you know, I wanted to wait until this rubbish with Lucretia dies down. Say, how’s old Tufty doing? Reckon she’ll let you sneak a peek up her dress?”_ _

__Alphard rolled his eyes and lifted his teacup. “You reckon Walburga will stay at the manor?”_ _

__“If there’s any justice in this world, yes.” Cygnus took out a tiny flask from his robes and dumped an amber liquid that smelled suspiciously like rum into his tea. At Alphard’s quizzical look, he explained, “I promised Druella I’d lay off the sauce. Between her, Walburga, and the useless morons I deal with at work, I’d go barking mad without a nip here and there.”_ _

__As if she could smell the alcohol from all the way upstairs, Druella howled his name._ _

__“Coming!” Cygnus called, yet he made no move to stand._ _

__“That’s swell you’re going to be a dad,” Alphard offered._ _

__Now it was Cygnus’ turn to roll his eyes. “For the kid, maybe, but not for me. As if Druella isn’t insufferable enough without a screaming bundle latched to her side. I’d better not have to waste galleons on another elf.”_ _

__The glow of Stateira’s friendly greeting had worn completely off. He gripped his teacup and gulped it down, his mood plummeting through the floor. Alphard watched him, trying to come up with a better subject, but he’d thought the idea of fatherhood would have slightly cheered his brother up._ _

__Unfortunately, Walburga and Orion chose that moment to show up. Walburga spotted her brothers in the parlor and stopped short. “I told you, Alphard, you cannot stay here!”_ _

__“I don’t—”_ _

__“Sod off, Walburga, and close your mouth for 10 bloody seconds,” Cygnus snarled. “He’s our brother, and he’s going to stay here whether you like it or not!”_ _

__“We’ll see,” she sang in an awful voice that made the tiny dark hairs on Alphard’s neck stand on end. “Come, Orion.”_ _

__Looking very much as if he’d rather stay with the cousins he was not married to, Orion begrudgingly followed his wife upstairs._ _

__“So…I can stay, then?” Alphard asked after a couple of minutes of silence._ _

__Cygnus had gone back to brooding, clutching his tea like a wand in a duel. “Of course,” he said dully. After another damp few minutes, Alphard left him alone to drop off his bag in his old room._ _

__On the way back out, he heard two female voices at the end of the hall. At first, he thought they belonged to Druella and Walburga, but Druella was in her bed surrounded by Witch Weekly magazines. She emitted another shrill “CYGNUS!” that again went ignored._ _

As Alphard took a step down the corridor, he recognized the two voices as Walburga’s and Stateira’s. _Merlin’s beard, this is going to get ugly._ He waited, listening, wondering if he would have to intervene. 

__“…away from my bloody brother,” Walburga was hissing. “There is nothing more I wish for than to toss you out on your little arse!”_ _

__“Ah, but you cannot,” Stateira replied calmly, undaunted by Walburga’s tone. “The Dark Lord wishes for me to stay here. My allegiance is to him, not you.”_ _

__Walburga snorted. “Please. ‘Allegiance.’ Is that what you call what you’re giving him? Don’t think I don’t hear your disgusting ruckus. My Aunt Dorea would be sickened to know what use her room has been made into.”_ _

__“Aw, are you jealous, love?” Stateira was using that cutting, condescending tone she’d often used with Ignatius, who had once told Alphard that the voice occasionally cropped up in his nightmares._ _

__Again, Walburga snorted, and Alphard could almost hear her chest inflating. “Do you really think I’d be jealous of a silly little girl who has let herself be tainted by a half-blood? Oh yes, dear, I know exactly who he is. I recall vividly that poor little orphan in his first year, ostracized for being impure, as he rightfully deserved. He’s only one step above a mudblood.”_ _

__“GODDAMN IT, CYGNUS!” Druella howled suddenly, starting Alphard horribly._ _

“Yet that didn’t stop you from pursuing him, did it?” Stateira asked amusedly. “Oh, how you _fancied_ him, but you couldn’t have him, oh no, because you could only take a pureblood, but you were willing to dash that all for Tom Riddle, weren’t you?” 

__“You—”_ _

“My, Walburga, how _filthy_ of you. No matter—he wouldn’t consider you. Who would? Certainly not your cousin.” 

__“How dare you invade my mind, you little wench,” Walburga snapped. “It was a brief fancy; I wasn’t throwing myself at him like you are, you filthy slag.”_ _

__“Better a slag than a breeding cow,” Stateira called as she appeared in the doorway. Alphard couldn’t seem to move as she approached him._ _

__“Hello again,” She was smiling pleasantly at him. “Won’t you please join me for a spot of tea?”_ _

__Before Alphard could unglue his tongue from the top of his mouth, she grabbed his hand and Disapparated. Walburga rushed out a second later, wand raised, ready to hex the insolent brat. But she’d gone._ _

__“Cygnus!” Druella roared from inside her room. “Is that you?”_ _

__She was lying in her bed propped up by pillows, clutching her tiny baby bump. Already her pregnancy had been no walk in the garden. She’d started to bleed the previous week, so the Healer placed her on bed-rest. She was confined to her room as her husband chased that McElroy bitch. Druella hated her with every fiber of her being, and she hated the damn Dark Lord for bringing her here._ _

__Most of all, as the hours passed, Druella hated the thing growing inside of her, sucking the life and beauty from her. Sometimes she wanted to press her fingers against her abdomen and squeeze as hard as she could. Instead, she picked up a teacup from beside her bed, which was filled with what everyone except for Kreacher assumed was tea. The champagne bubbles inside were her only source of pleasure anymore._ _

__“It’s me,” Walburga sighed as she entered the room. “Have you seen The Slag?”_ _

__Druella shook her head against the pillow, ratting up her knotty blonde hair even more. “I reckon she went downstairs with Alphard.”_ _

__“What?” Walburga screeched, eyes bulging under joined brows. “I told that traitorous arse he can’t stay here!”_ _

__“Well, he’s here. Get Cygnus while you’re down there, will you?”_ _

__Gritting her teeth, Walburga stomped downstairs and burst into the parlor, where Alphard, Stateira, and Cygnus were sitting, talking about their respective jobs and the Ministry in general._ _

__“Alphard—”_ _

__“Hold your tongue,” Cygnus growled, pulling out his wand. “One word of protest and I will curse you.”_ _

__“You dare threaten me, you imbecile?”_ _

__Alphard and Stateira exchanged glances and eye rolls. Despite the constant tension at Number 12, brother and sister often exchanged amusing, colorful insults, making for an entertaining hour._ _

__

__Lysandra Bell lived alone. She clearly did not have time for a husband or a pet. Her flat was tidy and decorated with colorful wallpaper. White shelves were stacked with books. Situated in the busiest area of London, the flat contained only a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and a small nook with her bed and wardrobe._ _

__Tom had preceded her home from work, Apparating directly to the front of her bed. He decided to wait for her in the doorway between the kitchen and dining area. He knew she would be coming back home and staying there, despite it being a warm Friday night. She, like him, preferred books over company._ _

__Bob Ogden had been taken care of, his memory wiped of the interview. Tom allowed Ogden to keep the one from 1925—the one with his mother. It was this memory that prompted him to come to Bell’s right after, determined to finish this whole mess for good._ _

__He heard the key turning in the lock and Bell entering the flat. Kicking the door closed behind her, she headed straight to the small, circular table in front of him, pulling her bag off her shoulder. With a heavy exhale, she collapsed in the chair and rubbed her eyes._ _

“Good evening, Lysandra,” Tom said brightly, hacking through the silence. _“Expelliarmus.”_

__Her wand flew out of her hand as she jolted up straight and whipped toward the kitchen. As her brown eyes fell on him, they widened in fear._ _

__“You!” she cried. “W—what are you doing in my house, Riddle?” Her voice grew stronger with each word. “Get out!”_ _

__“My, my, is that how you greet an old friend?” he teased, tucking her wand in his robes. “You’re breaking my heart.”_ _

__“You haven’t got one of those, Riddle.”_ _

__To his slight dismay, the fear in her eyes dimmed a bit, replaced with grim resignation. “I’m going to die,” she stated. “Aren’t I?”_ _

__“Who have you told?” he asked, choosing for her benefit to ignore the question._ _

__She shook her head slightly, looking down at the mottled linoleum floor. “Nobody.”_ _

__“If you are lying, I will eliminate your entire office.” Tom raised his wand and pushed into her mind. Her Occlumency was advanced, but her barriers were useless against the most skilled Legilimens in the world. Though she’d been telling the truth—she’d told no one of her mission. The last part of it, he saw, was an appointment on May 29th to speak with Morfin Gaunt in Azkaban._ _

__“I ought to ravage your mind beyond repair,” he said genially. “But I have not enough time. You’re lucky Lord Voldemort is quite busy these days.”_ _

__She noticeably blanched at the name, making him smile._ _

__“Which one is it?” she whispered._ _

__“Pardon?”_ _

__“The Trainee Aurors—Longbottom or McElroy? I know it isn’t Boot.”_ _

__“Why don’t you take a guess?” he suggested._ _

__“I’m going to go with McElroy.”_ _

__“Ah…suspected her, did you? Because of her brother?”_ _

__Bell finally picked up her head up and looked into Tom’s eyes. “Yes. But not for the reason you think. See, unlike you Slytherins, I don’t judge others based on their bloodlines and families. I don’t know her well enough, but I know who you really are, Tom Riddle, and I know you haven’t a single good intention for that girl. However, I also know she isn’t as dumb as she plays. One day she’ll see it, too.”_ _

“Doubtful.” He grinned as she dropped her gaze again. “Do you remember our sixth year in Potions, when we had that lesson on Amortentia? What did Slughorn say? ‘There is great power in obsessive love.’ She is _my_ Auror. My puppet.” He chuckled softly. Puppet indeed; all he had to do was slide two fingers inside of her and she was his to command. 

__“Like Amortentia, McElroy’s love for you is false, based on pretense,” Bell said defiantly, glaring at him._ _

__Tom found her attempt at bravery rather endearing. “Oh, this is much stronger than any silly potion. My power over others isn’t limited to magical means. There are other kinds of charms, darling. Perhaps you recall the spring of our seventh year?”_ _

__Lysandra’s cheeks burned and she turned away; tears prickling her eyes in embarrassment. In their seventh year, Riddle had taken her to a room on the seventh floor of Hogwarts, given her some sparkling potion, and entirely seduced her. She’d fancied him for the previous few years, but she was ashamed at how quickly she’d given in. After that, further compounding her humiliation, he’d lost any interest he’d had in her._ _

__However, Tom had never had interest in any witch, certainly not in that foolish Ravenclaw. As intelligent as she was, she was simply a means to an end. With adolescence came pesky, distracting sexual urges, and the idea of taking a whore like Avery and Lestrange did was thoroughly unappealing. No matter—there was naïve Lysandra Bell, willing test subject. Tom sneered at her with open contempt, reveling in her shame and discomfort._ _

__“You’re a monster,” she hissed after a moment, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Just like that thing you unleashed from the Chamber. I knew it was you, you evil bastard.”_ _

__Tom laughed out loud. That was a common theme among mortals; they were so afraid to push the boundaries of magic that they could never understand those who did. It was easier for their simple minds to write it off as mad or evil. Whether they thought him mad or evil was unimportant as long as they bowed to him._ _

__“Enough talking. Get on your knees, Lysandra,” he commanded._ _

__She shook her head. Enraged but still with complete control over himself, he pointed her wand between her glistening eyes. She was crying in full now, but still she did not move._ _

“I said, _on your knees_. It is not wise to defy Lord Voldemort.” 

__Still no response._ _

_“Crucio!”_

__Bell was thrown out of the chair and onto the floor, screaming and writhing in agony. After several minutes of watching her flop on the floor like a fish out of water, smashing her head against the legs of the chairs and table, Tom lifted the curse. “Ready to listen, darling?”_ _

__Sweating and trembling, with splatters of saliva and blood on her cheeks, Bell was too busy fighting for breath to answer right away. “No!” she finally cried out. “I will never submit to you, Riddle! You shall kill me in the end anyway, will you not?”_ _

“Correct,” Tom replied smoothly. “Yet you insist on doing this the hard way. _Imperio!”_

__At once, Bell’s limbs relaxed and the tension in her face melted away._ _

_Get on your knees._

__She pushed herself up into a kneeling position, her eyes blank and dull._ _

__“That’s it, darling, now isn’t this better?” Tom asked cheerfully as if he was speaking to a little girl. “So much more peaceful this is. You don’t want to die painfully, do you?”_ _

Bell shook her head dumbly, staring at his shoes. She did not look up as he lowered her wand to the top of her disheveled-haired head. _“Avada Kedavra,”_ he said softly. 

__Green light shot out of the wand, and she silently crumpled face-first onto the floor. Her wand was vanished along with her body, since Tom already owned two: his yew one from Ollivander’s from when he was a boy, and a silver lime wand he’d gotten abroad. Unregistered, this valuable wand was reserved for tasks requiring Dark magic._ _

__Once the flat was cleaned up, Tom Apparated to his flat in Newham. He had planned to go to Hogsmeade and then onward to Hogwarts, but he had to take care of something quickly. Taking life always aroused him, and to his luck, he wouldn’t have to take care of himself. McElroy was sitting at the table, apparently waiting for him._ _

__“I’m sorry if I shouldn’t be here, my Lord,” she said apprehensively, “but I needed a break from Number 12.”_ _

__“What a pleasant surprise, Stateira,” he said in the same cheerful tone, and she relaxed instantly. “How did you know I would come here?”_ _

__She smiled coyly. “Lucky guess, I suppose.” She was all done up in a silk dress, heels, and lipstick, trying to impress him. Tom preferred her without a dress with messy hair and smudged makeup, panting, but that would come later. He was still in the doting phase._ _

__Placing a hand against her soft cheek, he told her, “Come, let’s get something to eat, shall we?”_ _

__

__No scenario filled Stateira with more joy than the one that played out that Friday night: stomach full of mer-tail and sprouts, woozy with champagne, lying in her lover’s arms. Her head rested on his chest as he stroked her hair. They were both damp from exertion, breaths heavy. Stateira listened to his quick heartbeat, lost in a post-orgasmic haze, until he pushed her away._ _

__“Wait, darling, let me…” He sat up and waved his wand at the fogged window, pushing it open. Stateira lie on her back, waiting for him to do the same so she could assume the position. The Dark Lord remained seated, looking at her intently. She closed her eyes and smiled, replaying the wonderful evening in her mind. The dinner, dancing, drinking…and, best of all, the touching, the holding._ _

__She opened her mouth to tell him she loved him, but there were no words strong enough she could conjure. Funnily enough, what came out was, “Don’t they miss you at Hogwarts, sir?”_ _

__He chuckled and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, making her eyes close again. “Dippet isn’t concerned. I’ve got him in my pocket.”_ _

__“Not a surprise.”_ _

__Outside somewhere, a lady sang along with a record in a slow, wistful tune. The street below was bustling with chatting people, heels clicking, and stray cats howling._ _

__“Stateira, do you recall our last conversation about a nuisance at Hogwarts? You had offered to help.”_ _

__“Oh, yes,” she answered eagerly._ _

__“Well…as if so happens, I would like your help. Does the offer still stand?”_ _

__“Of course!” Without thinking, she sat up and clasped his hand. “I would be honored to help you, my Lord.”_ _

__“Very well, then. The nuisance’s name is Antonia Longbottom. She’s quite talented in my class, and I hear she is in others as well.”_ _

Bubbling hot rage at her former friend filled Stateira’s chest. Was Antonia as talented as she, and if so, did Riddle pay _her_ extra attention as well? 

__“Don’t be silly, Stateira,” he snapped impatiently. “I’ve got my hands full with you as it is. Not that I’m complaining,” he added in a kinder tone, pushing her hair behind her ear. “Have you heard of a group at Hogwarts called Dumbledore’s Army? Or DA for short.”_ _

__Stateira shook her head. “No, my Lord.” She felt him probe into her mind, flicking through her memories. Patiently she waited for him to withdraw, satisfied._ _

__“It’s run by Longbottom and chaperoned by Merrythought,” he continued. “Apparently, they are voicing concern about the way Hogwarts is run, particularly my class. Lysandra Bell was feeding them information about my Knights from the Ministry. Merrythought is easy to control, as she’s only an old teacher, but Longbottom has applied to Auror Training, and I’ll be very surprised if she’d not accepted. I’ve given her a letter of recommendation.”_ _

__“Why, sir?” Stateira asked, trying not to frown._ _

__“She requested one,” the Dark Lord replied simply. “There was no reason to deny her, as she’s one of the top students in her year.”_ _

__The thought of working with Antonia Longbottom in the Auror Office curled Stateira’s hands into fists._ _

__“There are ways to prevent her from ever seeing that office,” he said, slipping his hand under the blanket and resting it on her leg. “And I think it is you who is best suited for the task.”_ _

__“Which way do you recommend, sir?”_ _

__He shook his head as he pulled his hand away. She ached for it back, but a moment later, she felt his fingertips on her inner thigh, raising the hairs on her arms and neck. “It’s your choice, darling. Perhaps you could rest your proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse, since it’s been a bit since you’ve practiced.”_ _

__Although she was reluctant to imagine using the curse on a human, she nodded. She could carry it out with relative ease; all she had to do was imagine Antonia in Riddle’s office with the door locked._ _

__“…or you could handle her the way I handled Lysandra Bell.”_ _

__Unconsciously, a lump crept up her throat and she swallowed hard. “My Lord, I beg you to tell me how…”_ _

__He smiled at her. “You will find out very soon, my darling.”_ _

__Stateira wanted further elaboration, but his hand had reached the warmth between her legs. Letting out a sigh, she reclined back on the pillow, biting her lip. He leaned forward and kissed her hard as she clutched him against her._ _

__“She cannot compare to you,” he whispered in her ear, bringing her closer and closer to the brink again. “You surpass every witch in beauty and brilliance. And loyalty, correct?”_ _

__“Yes, my Lord,” Stateira gasped, her face scrunched up, her ears ringing. She was unconcerned about being heard by the muggles outside; let them frown in envy thinly veiled as distaste. This is what she lived for—Lord Voldemort’s reward._ _

____

~**~ ~**~

_16 June 1950_  
 _Dear Antonia,_

_I can barely lift my quill to dab it in ink. I am so heavy—my muscles, my chest, my eyelids, my mind. It is too much to bear at times. Sometimes my mind blanks out and I find myself in places I don’t remember going. I am trying to hold it together but Lysandra’s disappearance has shaken me to the bones. She was my mentor, my guidance through Training, through adult life. If I had any doubts, it was she I could turn to. And Stateira, who is equally devastated._

_I do hope I’m not frightening you; it doesn’t seem to be related to any Dark activity. Ian Brown is investigating, but so far we’ve found no traces. Her flat is empty; it’s doubtful she even arrived home after work on Friday. Brown’s going through her active cases to find a suspect. Do I believe it’s malevolent? Well, I don’t know. She is Head Auror, after all._

_On a lighter note, I am so very delighted to hear you’ve been accepted. Of course, I hadn’t a single doubt you wouldn’t be, but I am thrilled all the same. Just a few months before we are working side by side! I have faith that Lysandra will be found and will have returned here by then. I tell you, without faith, this office would have been shut down a long time ago. Sone days when we’ve run out of leads, it’s all we’ve got._

_You know you can write to me as much as you need to about anything at all. Professor Merrythought is probably not as reciprocal due to shock. I know I am still flabbergasted and unable to believe it. All we can do is hope, yes?_

_Please, if you can help it, try not to mention anything to Callista. So far she hasn’t heard of it, and I’d like to keep it that way for a bit. I don’t want her worrying about me. Say, did I tell you I am about to test out of Concealment and Disguise? I’m overjoyed at the thought of getting started on Apprehension and Detainment! Please send Hollis my well wishes. I do hope he and Stateira will mend their relationship shortly. As you know with Achilles, there is no stronger bond than one between siblings._

_With love,_  
_Edwina_

 

Stateira stood behind the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade between two rubbish bins, waiting for Antonia Longbottom. The heat was stifling, and the air was permeated with the acrid stench of food waste. 

A few days prior, the Dark Lord had given her a wand made of silver lime that he claimed was made for him by an Eastern European wandmaker that he’d visited on his sabbatical after leaving Hogwarts. The wand was 13 inches long, as straight as a pool stick, and untraceable by the Ministry. Once he passed it to Stateira, she’d cornered Edwina at the Auror Office and placed her under the Imperius Curse. 

They had been in Lysandra’s office cleaning out her files. After a quick, whispered, _“Imperio!”_ Stateira had made Edwina write a brief letter to Antonia:

_Dear Antonia,_

_I have urgent news about Lysandra, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I debated on whether to speak of it, but there is a link to the DA. Meet me in Hogsmeade behind the Hog’s Head this Saturday at 3:00. Be sure to destroy this letter immediately! I could get into terrible trouble if anyone finds it._

_Sincerely,_  
_Edwina_

Once she’d secured the letter in the pocket of her robe and plucked a strawberry blonde hair from the girl’s head, Stateira lifted the curse and suggested they go back to work. Edwina had rubbed her eyes and agreed. 

Antonia showed up at exactly three o’clock as expected—lateness was laziness in her eyes. “Hello, Edwina,” she greeted, for Stateira was a few inches taller with copious amounts of freckles and chin-length strawberry blonde hair. As soon as the Dark Lord had assigned her the task, she’d ordered Kreacher to brew Polyjuice Potion. Edwina’s hair flavored it a tart, raspberry-like flavor. 

“Hello Antonia, nice to see you again,” she said pleasantly. “Come, let’s speak in private.” Before Antonia could say a word, Stateira grabbed her hand and Apparated to the flat in Newham. 

The Dark Lord had revealed that she was Secret Keeper of the flat: only the pair of them knew of its location. That immediately changed by bringing Antonia there, for the charm would extend to her. No matter—Stateira would ensure that Antonia would never remember the flat. 

“Where are we?” Antonia asked as soon as their feet touched the floor, frowning and looking around the place. “Who lives here?”

Then her eyes fell on Stateira, who was her brown-haired, pointy-nosed self after the wards melted away the disguise. “You!”

“Me,” Stateira chuckled. 

“What—what are you—?”

Wordlessly, Stateira pulled out her wand and disarmed Antonia. The other reached desperately as it flew away, but her hands only grasped air. 

“Got to have better reflexes than that if you’d like to be an Auror,” Stateira mocked. “Not that you’re equipped to be an Auror in the slightest.”

“I got into Training,” Antonia snarled, arching her back and clenching her fists. 

Stateira tucked Antonia’s wand into her robes and raised her own again. “Silly girl, you will not be fit for Training after I’m through with you.”

Antonia shook her head, eyes sparkling with tears. “Why are you doing this?”

“Hmm, does the name ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ ring a bell?”

Antonia spluttered a response, but Stateira wasn’t listening. _Legilimens!_ Merrythought’s classroom slid into view, occupied by the professor and a cluster of students. She recognized Antonia, Edwina, Weasley, Prewett, that annoying little Gryffindor McGonagall, and, with a small, painful clench deep inside her chest, Hollis. 

She watched him rise from his seat, stand next to Antonia, and address the group. _“Grindelwald’s followers were called the Magic Army. They wanted to carry out his vision, and we want to carry out Dumbledore’s vision, do we not? I say Dumbledore’s Army.”_

__Stateira jerked out of Antonia’s mind, teeth bared in rage. “You _dare_ corrupt my brother with your moronic, muggle-loving ideas? Get on your knees, little girl.” __

____

____

__Antonia obeyed, sinking down on her knees, but she let out a low, bitter laugh. “Hollis is pure of heart; he has avoided corruption. I am more of a sister than you are, yes? It is a blessing for him that you’d rather chase men and exercise Dark Magic. For whom are you working, Stateira, the Dark Lord? Is that why Lysandra disappeared, because she was hot on his trail?”_ _

__Stateira said nothing. The girl was clearly furious at her vulnerable position, and the least Stateira could do was let her get it out before ruining her life._ _

__“Taking the Dark Lord to bed, are you?” Antonia goaded. “Trying to win his affections, just like with Professor Riddle?” Suddenly her mouth formed an O and her eyes widened._ _

__An insidious grin crossing her face, Stateira watched her mental cogs turning. “Figured it out, have you?”_ _

__“He’s—Riddle…and you’re a Knight!”_ _

__“Silly girl, I am much more than a Knight,” Stateira responded coolly. “I’ll sit at his right side until I die.”_ _

__“You’re going to die sooner rather than later,” Antonia shot back scathingly. “Why don’t you try doing some good for the world, instead of undressing for that evil, manipulative bastard? He doesn’t love you, you know. He’ll kill you the second you’re no longer of use to him.”_ _

__If they were muggles, Stateira would have slapped her, but Stateira was much better than any muggle, than any witch, even. And now it was time to utilize her power and carry out her Lord’s will. She pointed her wand at her former best friend’s face calmly, almost indifferently._ _

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

__Astonished, she watched the green light hit Antonia square in the mouth, the life fading from her eyes. Stateira had been half-expecting it not to work. The other young killers she knew, such as Riddle and Alexander, were much more powerful than she. Yet Antonia was slumped over, unmoving, as her final, rattling breath dissipated into the hot air._ _

__Stateira expected to feel something, but only numbness took over. Everything was so still, so peaceful. The sun shone through the windows, casting a bright, warm glow onto the floor of the room. Outside, the laughter of children rang through the streets, where the overall mood was joyous on this unseasonably warm spring day. And here inside the flat, Stateira stood feet away from a young dead witch._ _

__She didn’t even react when the door opened behind her and the Dark Lord burst in. Slowly, she turned around to look at him as he entered the room._ _

__He was staring at the girl on the floor. “What’s happened?” he asked. “She fainted?” He’d been waiting downstairs in case Stateira had needed assistance, assuming she would use the Cruciatus Curse. Contrary to both of their beliefs, she had not needed him at all._ _

__When she failed to answer, the Dark Lord turned to her. When he realized what she’d done, surprise and approval crossed his features. A twinge of triumph flitted across her mind for a moment. She had exceeded his expectations, again._ _

__“No,” she said finally, void of thought and feeling. “She is dead.”_ _

__

____

~**~ ~**~


	13. Autumn 1950

Ignatius and Lucretia Prewett could not have had better weather for their reception. September 30th was sunny with a cool breeze and white puffy clouds. Large tables and a glass dance floor spread out across a flat, grassy valley next to the lavish banquet hall. 

On the tables were various arrays of appetizers and the centerpiece was a porcelain fountain of champagne encircled with lilies. Even better than the weather and decorations was the atmosphere. The Black and Prewett families had reached an unspoken agreement to be civil. Not that they dared mingle together, but the air was filled with pleasant chattering rather than harsh whispers. Bride and groom sat in the center of it all at a silver-crusted table, greeting those who arrived after the ceremony. 

Alphard was stuck on the end of one of the tables next to Icarus Yaxley, who also did not have a date. Cygnus sat to his right, tossing back glasses of champagne. He and Abraxas Malfoy, who’d come with Beryl Fawley, kept looking around for someone. Walburga and Druella were attached at the hip, both pouting and subdued. 

They were not the only ones. As of late, Alphard had been feeling a weight on his neck and shoulders that he couldn’t seem to relieve even for a moment. He hated living with Cygnus and Druella, who both loathed each other, judging by the vicious insults they screamed at each other during rows. He hated being Junior Undersecretary, also known as “Tufty’s Ferret,” who was assigned all of the dull task no one else on the top floor wanted to do. Never had Alphard, Head Boy, Noble Black descendant, and top student, felt so dull and insignificant. 

“D’you think he’s coming?” Malfoy asked about seven times. “Reckon he’ll show?”

“I hope not,” Walburga muttered, earning her a sharp glare from Cygnus. 

“Hold your tongue, sister.”

“Piss off, Cygnus, you’re not Father…”

Alphard stood up, unable to tolerate another bickering session. “Excuse me, I’m going to greet Lucretia and Ignatius.”

“You’ve done that already, mate,” Yaxley said, but Alphard pretended not to hear. 

“He can’t stay away from those two…” Walburga was saying snidely as he walked away. 

Lucretia was a raven-haired, ivory-skinned doll in a silk and lace dress and an ocean of waves atop her head. Ignatius’ usually floppy red hair was short and slicked back, and his dress robes gave him a strong resemblance to his charismatic father, Fabian. He and Lucretia both smiled as Alphard approached. 

“Sorry I had to place you next to Cygnus,” Lucretia said in a low, rueful voice. “Mother and Aunt Irma took over the whole arrangement.”

Alphard shrugged, indifferent. There was nowhere he could sit that he truly belonged. “The decorations are lovely,” he replied, for lack of anything better to say. 

Ignatius was looking at him intensely. He and Alphard met up about once or twice a week in the Ministry dining hall to eat lunch together and shoot the breeze. He’d noticed Alphard slowly withdrawing into himself but had not yet spoken up about it. 

All of the sudden, Lucretia beamed at someone behind Alphard. “Ah, Tom! Hello!”

Alphard whipped around and came face to face with Riddle. Hastily, he stepped out of his path to the bride and groom. 

“Good afternoon, Lucretia and Ignatius,” Riddle said pleasantly, extending a gold-wrapped box to them. “What a lovely set up you have here.”

“Thank you, Prof—er, Tom,” Ignatius said awkwardly. 

Lucretia, who had only ever known Riddle as model student and prefect, turned to the woman standing by his side. “Ah, and Stateira, how wonderful it is to see you again!”

“You as well, Lucretia,” Stateira responded, all wine-red lips and sparkling teeth. “Don’t you look beautiful.” She turned to Ignatius. “Congratulations, Head of Muggle Liaison Office.”

To Alphard’s surprise, Ignatius blushed and let an odd, throaty chuckle. “Back to you, Trainee Auror.” All animosity toward her seemed to be forgotten or at least placed on hold for Lucretia’s benefit. 

Out of everyone at the reception, Stateira and Riddle were dressed the plainest, the former in simple black dress robes and the latter in a black strapless gown and gloves. Stateira’s hair hung in waves, covering the side of her face, and she held herself like a queen, as if there was no higher place than at Riddle’s side. He held a hand on her narrow waist, an arrogant smile on his lips. Every one of the Blacks, Lestranges, Rosiers, Averys, and Malfoys had an eye on him as they talked amongst themselves. 

“Tom, you must share with us some stories of Hogwarts,” Lucretia was gushing, throwing her manicured hands up for emphasis. “I’m sure you have plenty!”

“Only if you share your adventures in France,” he replied. “I’m surprised to see you back so soon.”

“Ah, well, it was about time to settle down and get married.” She shot a warm glance at Ignatius before turning back to Riddle. “Perhaps the next wedding will be yours?” She winked playfully. 

Riddle smiled at Stateira. “Perhaps it will.”

Alphard didn’t know which was more disturbing: the cool, constructed look on Riddle’s face or the pure radiation of pride and joy on Stateira’s. Stomach acid crept up his throat at the display. “Excuse me, I’ve got to use the bathroom,” he mumbled, stepping away.

In the men’s room, he splashed his face with cold water, breathing heavily. He felt very hot all of the sudden, and not even shedding his robes helped. 

“Get it together, mate,” he told himself in the mirror. 

When he returned to the festivities, he was relieved to see that Lucretia and Ignatius were now talking to a Prewett cousin. Riddle and Stateira had taken seats at the opposite end of the table from Yaxley and Alphard, next to Lestrange and his wife. The reception commenced, music started, drinks were refilled, and people were moving to the dance floor. The majority of their table remained seated, flocked around Riddle. 

As the sun set, a string of lanterns around the scene lit up, twinkling with bright, multicolored lights. Champagne steadily flowed, leading more and more guests to couple up and dance, cheerful swing records echoing across the valley. With fondness, Alphard watched his parents laughing like teenagers, getting on the best in years. Even Stateira, giggly and full of champagne, managed to drag Riddle onto the dance floor for a bit. 

Walburga refused to dance with Orion, and Druella wasn’t to even rise from her seat, so Alphard had the company of his brother and cousin. Druella watched Cygnus beadily, making sure he wasn’t salivating over other girls. His face stayed impassive, but Alphard knew his brother’s imagination was on overdrive. 

“Alphard,” a female voice said near his ear, startling him. He turned and looked up at a grinning Lucretia. “Dance with me, cousin?”

He stood and took her hand, glad for an excuse to leave the Table of Gloom behind. 

Lucretia was an excellent dancer, and, though Alphard was slightly repulsed to be thinking of his cousin in such a manner, he had to admit she was beautiful. If Stateira and Riddle with their aura of darkness had been absent, Lucretia would have been the star from beginning to end. 

“I’m thrilled you’re happy, cousin,” he told her earnestly. “I know he’s my best mate, but I’ll plunder Ignatius if he doesn’t treat you well.”

Lucretia chuckled and rolled her eyes. “You have always been protective of me.”

Just then, a slower, more romantic song started to play, so Alphard excused himself to the bathroom once more as Lucretia disappeared to find Ignatius. Feeling better than he had in a long while, Alphard whistled the previous tune as he washed his hands and dabbed sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. As he left the bathroom, he decided not to return to the tables or dance floor but to go for a walk instead. 

The evening was crisp and cool, a hint of the upcoming winter in the breeze. Behind the banquet hall, a thin strip of light blue lingered on the horizon, but it was rapidly dissipating. The farther away from the lights Alphard moved, the more star-spotted layers of the navy blue sky he could see. He realized that it had been a very long while since he’d left London, where the stars were hardly visible at all. 

“There you are, Alphard,” a voice said nearby, but unlike Lucretia’s, this one was low, male, and unwelcome. In the dim light, he could only make out the silhouette of a tall figure with black wavy hair. 

“Come, let’s walk this way.” Riddle spoke as if he was giving a suggestion, but Alphard knew he hadn’t a choice but to follow. 

He led him farther away from the celebration, toward the scant forest that surrounded the valley. As they walked along the line of trees, Riddle began to speak in the same friendly tone he’d used as a professor giving “advice” to the Head Boy. 

“I would be a blind fool if I did not see how you resist me, Alphard. What is it about our cause that repulses you so?”

“Nothing, sir,” Alphard said quickly. “I am not repulsed.”

“You are lying.” Riddle delivered this swiftly and without rancor. “I’ve given you ample amount of time to swear your allegiance to Lord Voldemort. What is causing the delay?”

“I—I don’t know, sir. My Ministry duties—”

“Yes, that’s another topic I’d like to discuss. Being Undersecretary gives you a lot of information others are not privy to. If we work together, not only will you and your family reap the rewards, the entire wizarding community will ascend to the highest level of the human hierarchy. Don’t you want to be a part of such a transformation, Alphard?” 

“Y—yes, sir.” He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Riddle’s determination of the highest level would entail. Nothing good for the non-magical, that much was apparent. 

“Swell. So I am not mistaken for expecting a formal vow from you in the near future, correct?”

“Correct,” Alphard replied, trying to keep the profound misery out of his voice. 

“Also swell. Because if I haven’t gotten it by the time you are promoted to Senior Undersecretary, I’ll have to place you under the Imperius Curse.”

Alphard stopped short, feeling his lungs shrivel up as the air left them. Riddle also stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. 

“I don’t want to resort to that, Alphard.” He spoke as if to a brother, except he was infinitely more patient—on the surface—than Cygnus. “I trust you to make the best decision. Do not disappoint me.”

Riddle took his hand off Alphard’s shoulder and walked away, back to the raucous ceremony without looking back. 

Alphard wished to run away or simply collapse on the cool grass, but he knew those weren’t options. At the very least, he had to rejoin the party and Apparate his drunk brother and cousin home. 

_So this is what my life has become,_ he thought glumly as he walked slowly across the lawn. _Ministry ferret and indentured servant to the Dark Lord_. He knew he’d pay hell if anyone caught the 19-year-old son of Irma and Pollux Black crying like a girl, but he could not stop the single, burning tear from sliding down his cheek. 

~**~ ~**~

_3 October 1950_  
_Dear Hollis,_

_I’m so sorry I could not bring myself to write sooner. I simply do not know what to say. I wish I could give you news, but I haven’t any. We have no leads on either of them, and it hurts very badly to write that._

_The only official link is that they were both in or on their way to the Auror Office, but that is a very ambiguous connection. Their blood statuses were different, so there is not a reason to believe it was related to the Dark Lord or his Knights, which seem to have dropped off the Earth for the time being anyway._

_The only other link I can think of is the DA and corresponding with Professor Merrythought, who says she hasn’t got an idea, either. I think you should speak with her, not just to obtain information, but she may help you cope with Antonia’s disappearance. I reckon I shall write to her as well. Rest assured that you are safe, as not many know about the DA. It would be a good idea to place the DA on hold for a bit. You may write as often as you’d like, Hollis, and I will read it all and think of you. However, I cannot always guarantee a response. I simply haven’t the strength._

_Sincerely,_  
_Edwina_

_10 October 1950_  
_Dear Edwina,_

_I appreciate your honesty. I’ve spoken to Merrythought, but I can tell she’s a bit wigged out as well. If you don’t know what happened to Antonia, she doesn’t, either._

_I will not let them win, Edwina. Antonia wished for the DA to carry on after she left Hogwarts, and continue it I shall. We need to protect ourselves and each other now more than ever._

_It’s difficult to explain why I am compelled to fight against the Dark. Perhaps I am balancing the scale against my brother. In years past, I viewed Alexander as a role model, like my sister had, but he never was one. No one can be a murderer and hero simultaneously. It’s taken me too long to realize that. My family has always turned the other cheek. I refuse to._

_You can write to me, too, even if you don’t have any news._

_Sincerely,_  
_Hollis_

Edwina hadn’t been entirely forthcoming with Hollis. Her fear prevented her from writing, speaking, or thinking coherently. Lysandra, Antonia, Dumbledore… How many more was the Dark going to snatch away? She was filled with equal parts resolve and horror at her career path. She wanted to be an Auror, wanted to take action, but the fear was always sloshing around in her chest. 

At home, she was irritable from lack of sleep, snapping uncharacteristically at her father. In the office, she could barely remember a task for 10 seconds after Rachel assigned it. Yet Rachel could not keep track of much, either. All further classes were placed on hold, leaving Training in a state of limbo. 

Achilles took a leave of absence and wouldn’t answer any owls. Stateira was subdued and often bit her knuckle, preoccupied. Out of the anxiety and grimness, Edwina suspected that after Achilles, she herself was suffering the worst. Antonia had been her confidante, after all. 

Lysandra’s office had remained unlocked and untouched, saved for the current cases. Brown had commanded Edwina to search for a record, and she could not find it anywhere. This was troubling, as Brown’s temper lately had been compromised due to all of the cases being on his shoulders. Just being in the office was making Edwina’s eyes sting, and eventually she brought her hands to her face, tears spilling into her palms. She wasn’t ready to be an Auror…

Quiet footsteps approached, and then arms were wrapping around Edwina’s shoulders. “Shh,” a female voice said as long fingernails grazed her scalp, softly stroking her hair away from her face. Edwina turned toward the warmth and buried her face into a pillow of silky light brown hair, lavender perfume filling her nose. 

“Shh, Edwina, it’s alright,” Stateira whispered soothingly into her ear. “Don’t cry, love, it’s alright.”

Eyes still closed and leaking tears, Edwina shook her head, Stateira’s hair clinging to her cheek. “It’s not,” she protested murkily. “We’re probably next.”

“No! No, we’re not,” the other assured her. 

“Yes, we are!” Edwina cried. “We are the last defenders of the light.”

“Shh, dear, it’s alright.” Stateira pulled away, cupped Edwina’s chin with one hand, and wiped her tear-soaked cheek with the other. “No one will hurt us, love, understand? _We are safe.”_

“How—how can you be so sure?”

“Trust me.”

She sounded so confident, but how would she know? No one knew were Lysandra and Antonia were, if they were even alive. Clearly female Aurors were being targeted.

Still holding Edwina’s face, Stateira tipped her chin up, so they were looking at each other. Green eyes locked with dark brown, and Edwina thought of Hollis at Hogwarts, leading the DA. Should she speak of the DA to Stateira? Her instincts were screaming at her not to. 

Stateira took a step back and released Edwina, appraising her with a sudden blank expression, eyes cold. The two girls held eye contact for another moment until Stateira blinked and turned away. “I’ve got to get back to the Record Room.” She was out the door before Edwina even moved, leaving her alone in the dark office. 

Edwina was proficient enough in Occlumency to tell when Alice Ludlow had been invading her mind by the flashing of sudden, obscure memories. However, Ludlow had told them that a well-versed Legilimens would not stand 10 feet in front of them and yell the incantation like she did. The adversary would be subtler, only slightly tugging images to the forefront of their minds akin to a fleeting thought brought on by an association. Edwina had been writing to Hollis and discussing the DA, so naturally she would think of those two subjects next to her sister, right?

Stateira had told Ludlow that she’d practiced Occlumency with Riddle as a method of regulating her emotions. Its effectiveness was clear after their “detentions” following the Weasley Weasel Incident—she no longer had destructive magical fits. Undoubtedly that was due to Riddle teaching her Occlumency…but had he taken it a step further? Who else would have taught her Legilimency? 

And for what purpose? That was the real question. Aurors were not taught Legilimency. In addition to its ominous label of Dark magic, it was inadmissible in court. Memories could be tampered with, and it took a highly skilled wizard to sort the truth from the altered version. There were not many cases in which Legilimency was used for a benevolent cause. 

If Stateira knew Legilimency, what else of the Dark Arts had she been taught?

 _Stop being paranoid_ , Edwina scolded herself, and at once, a sensible explanation came to her. Stateira had invaded her mind for news of Hollis, since she knew Edwina corresponded with Callista at Hogwarts. Yes, that had to be it. Edwina knew Stateira missed her brother. 

That still did not explain why Riddle had taught her a Dark spell, though. Legilimency took years to learn, even for witches above her level of skill. 

“Edwina!” Brown barked, causing Edwina to jump out of her skin, crashing back to Earth. “Have you got the damn file or not?”

“Er, no, sir,” Edwina mumbled, turning a deep shade or pink. “I’m still looking…”

“Doesn’t look like you’re looking. Get moving!” He stalked away, narrowly avoiding an irate Rachel, who had just hollered at Stateira for a similar reason. 

A deep roar of unsettlement broke out somewhere in Edwina’s stomach as she flipped through old records again. This much was clear: wallowing in fear was no longer an option. 

 

It was worse after every Horcrux, or so it seemed. For three days, Tom was in his bed in the flat while the cold wind howled and shook the old windows. The first two times, he’d been back to normal within the following 24 hours. Then again, he’d been 16 and his soul actually complied. This time, it resisted and he almost lost it. The pain was intolerable and it was terribly cold. 

Even worse were the mental effects: old memories of the orphanage, that hideous asylum they’d sent him to get examined…that repugnant muggle doctor…and the worst, a memory he’d pulled from that swine, Caractacus Burke. 

It was Burke who had led Tom to the locket. All he had to do was visit his old shop in Knockturn Alley and tear it out of the old fool. The lady that had his locket was dead or would die very soon, poisoned by her own house-elf. 

While in Burke’s mind, he saw a young, ragged woman placing the locket on the counter with trembling hands. 

“Five galleons,” Burke had told her. 

“Please, sir, it’s all I’ve got left,” the woman pleaded, shivering in her worn robe. She was heavily pregnant. 

“Fine, then. Ten or nothing.”

Oh, how Tom had ached to kill Burke right then, the perfect murder for this Horcrux in particular, but he still had a lot of useful information about artefacts. No, now was not the time to kill him; that would come later. 

The woman he’d swindled was the same who’d named Tom after his deplorable father, and her memory wouldn’t leave him alone. 

“You stupid, wretched little girl,” he muttered out loud, pressing his face into the pillow. His muscles ached and his heart beat erratically. 

As much distaste as he had toward his mother, she at least had Slytherin’s blood. He had wished for her often as a boy, but he was a man—better than that—and had no patience for this nonsense. 

Although he was still in pain, he forced himself out of bed, where he’d lain for over a day. _No one would mourn you, either_ , an annoying, snide voice said in his head, _so you’d better not die._

“I will not,” he said. “I am the greatest sorcerer in the world.”

After a quick shower, Tom dressed and went to his desk, where he took out a map of Albania. He’d told Dippet he was out with spattergroit, so he did not have to rush. However, he couldn’t get his goddamn mother out of his head, so he stood up, slammed the parchment on the desk, and Disapparated before he even contemplated where to go. Hogwarts, perhaps, under a disguise. 

Tom did not land on the edge of the Forbidden Forest but in the upper hallway of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Immediately, he was assaulted with ruckus: Cygnus and his wife in the next room were screaming at each other at the top of their voices. The portraits had apparently turned into werewolves, for they were all howling incoherently. 

Down the hall, a piano-and-saxophone tune played as a woman’s voice sang unabashedly over the singer’s. Tom advanced toward the room, passing Alphard Black’s, where the boy sat with his head in his hands. He was unimportant; they all were. 

Stateira was dancing in her seat, eyes closed, coursework abandoned. The record was playing loud enough to block all sound, even if she had been paying attention. 

Tom entered the room, closed the door behind him, and took a few steps toward her. She sure wasn’t bogged down by murdering that girl, singing there without a care. He stood still and watched her, amused, until the song ended. She opened her eyes and saw him immediately. 

“My Lord!” she cried, falling to her knees. 

They had not seen each other recently, for there had been no meetings. Between his student’s death and his Horcrux, Tom had placed them on hold. 

“Rise,” he growled. 

At once, she jumped to her feet. Without thinking, he reached a hand out, grabbed the front of her robes, and jerked her forward. Her head snapped back like a rag doll as she stumbled. Against his fist, he could feel her heart rate increasing. 

In her wide dark eyes, Tom could see his own face, in shadow except for two gleaming red eyes. He’d seen flashes of red after the first two times, but not for more than a second until now. 

The girl was terrified of him, that much was clear. He could feel it in waves rolling off of her. He absorbed them greedily, like a plant in the sun in a Scottish summer. Old Grindelwald may believe that adoration was better than fear, but that was because he’d never been properly feared. _This_ surpassed all else. He was bursting with lustful energy, ready to throw her down and leave her whimpering on the floor—no. 

Not the time for that. Finally, Tom was thinking rationally again. The red gleam darkened as his grip on Stateira’s robes loosened. He couldn’t have her pull her cards out now. 

“I haven’t rewarded you properly, have I?”

She stood still, reluctant to answer. He took her in her arms and slowly danced with her for the duration of the following song. “Come,” he whispered, pulling her toward the bed. 

After 10 minutes, they lie on the bed, her head against his chest, her hair sticking to the side of his face. Tom didn’t really care for all of the holding and fussing afterward, considering it a waste of time. However, this is what McElroy preferred, and he did have to reward her from time to time. 

“My most faithful,” he said to her, sliding his fingers through her hair. 

The spattergroit story was good—Dippet wouldn’t ask questions when he took his leave. He was partial to Hogwarts, but it was best to quit while he was ahead. After all, he would have plenty of time—eternity, in fact—to return. 

He would search the Albanian forest for Ravenclaw’s diadem, his next Horcrux. Hufflepuff’s cup was still empty, but he had time for that, too. Seven Horcruxes—his transformation from pathetic orphan Tom Riddle to Lord Voldemort, leader of the new world, would be complete. More than a man, more than a wizard, he would control them all. 

A small squeak came from the girl, and he felt her quickened heartbeat against his chest. Tom realized he had clenched her hair in his fist and started to pull. He released it and caressed her cheek, but she remained rigid with fear. She did not want to set him off, unable to predict his behavior, but she didn’t want to be away from him, either. 

“Relax, darling,” he told her. “I love you. Do you still believe that?”

The girl nodded but did not relax. No matter—he knew she loved him. She was weak for it, just like his mother had been. Just like all witches. 

~**~ ~**~

An unfamiliar light grey owl flew into the Great Hall and delivered an envelope to a third-year Ravenclaw boy. There were only a few words in the center of the gleaming white envelope:

_Hollis McElroy_  
_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

The words were printed as if the envelope contained an official document. Nonplussed, Hollis carefully opened it and pulled out a typed letter.

_11 November 1950_  
_Dear Hollis,_

_This is your only warning: dismantle the DA. Stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You would do best to remember where your loyalties lie. You are in danger if you continue the DA._

_Anonymous_

Hollis frowned; what in the hell did _that_ mean? Someone was threatening him—who? The last two disappearances had been half-blood Aurors. It didn’t seem hopeful that they’d be found alive. 

Was it Edwina? Did she know something about the investigations? She told him they weren’t in danger, but according to this cold, typed note, he was. 

Or—he hated to think it—Stateira? She would be upset about his speeches about their brother, but the DA? She was an Auror, essentially the official, Ministry-appointed DA. _You would do best to remember where your loyalties lie._ That sure sounded like something Stateira would say. 

It took exactly 24 hours to confirm his theory: on the way to the Great Hall for breakfast, Hollis overheard something that dried up his mouth and throat. 

Edward Rosier and his band of Slytherin cronies were in front of him, walking as slow as humanly possible. Hollis debated whether to scoot around them, but Rosier had a nasty habit of shooting jinxes at his back. Just then, his foul right-hand man, George Goyle, turned, saw Hollis, and nudged Rosier. 

“Look at the justice leader,” he snickered. “Wonder what Dumbledore’s arse-kissing ceremony he’s up to now?”

Rosier stopped and turned around, a nasty gleam in his green eyes. “Oi, McElroy! Alright, mate?” 

“Leave me alone, Rosier,” Hollis sighed. 

“Why so glum, mate?” Goyle asked in a mock-friendly tone. “Have you just realized you’re a useless sack of shite?” 

“Perhaps it’s his slag sister,” Rosier goaded, walking backward down the corridor. “She and Riddle are official now, but I’ll bet all the money in my Gringott’s vault—which is more than you’ll ever see in your life, McElroy—that he had her long before that Prewett’s wedding.”

“I’ll bet he’s got a pair of her knickers in his office,” Goyle added, but Hollis was no longer listening. Riddle and his sister were _officially_ together?

And everyone knew of it already? “Sod off, the pair of you,” he snapped, wishing for a moment to think. 

Rosier opened his mouth to reply, but just then he collided with a larger Hufflepuff boy, sending his books to the ground. “Watch where you’re going,” Rosier snarled, “you useless lump!”

The boy dug out his wand, but Rosier had already cast a stinging hex. It landed on the boy’s shoulder, and he hissed in pain. Before Rosier could raise his wand again, Hollis shoved him to the ground, shouting, _“Expelliarmus!”_ Goyle’s wand flew into his hand. 

“Give it back, wanker,” Goyle seethed, but Hollis was focused on Rosier, who had jumped to his feet and pointed his wand at Hollis. 

_“Rictusempra!”_

_“Protego!”_

A jet of light bounced off Hollis’ shield and hit a nearby gargoyle, which grunted and recoiled. The Hufflepuff boy left his books and dashed down the corridor. 

“Is that all you’ve got, sissy?” Rosier taunted, but then they heard heavy footsteps echoing around the corridor. Wands still raised, all three boys looked around and saw Riddle approaching. 

“What is going on here?”

“McElroy—” 

“Twenty points from Slytherin, Mr. Rosier, and detention this evening at seven o’clock, my office. Another ten from you, Mr. Goyle. This is the second time in one week you two have broken school rules, and I am very displeased. Now move along.”

“Yes, Professor,” Rosier muttered as he and Goyle shuffled silently down the hall, heads down. 

Riddle turned to Hollis and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, each searching for something in the other’s eyes. Riddle’s face was devoid of expression, as usual. 

_I know you’re influencing my sister,_ Hollis thought. _And I know you are both up to no good._

Another tense moment passed before Riddle broke eye contact. “Ten points from Ravenclaw, Mr. McElroy,” he said tonelessly and turned away. 

Now Hollis finally had a chance to think. Forgoing breakfast entirely, he went back to Ravenclaw Tower, knowing his companions were all in the Great Hall. Perhaps they were wondering where he was, but oh well, he could explain later. He needed solitude to sort out the thoughts buzzing loudly in his head. 

Antonia was gone. Merrythought was going mad with worry. Edwina knew nothing, and Professor Riddle was openly dating Stateira. Stateira, who worshiped Alexander, a Dark wizard, and now she’d found a replacement.

Alone in the dormitory, Hollis sat on his bed and sank his head in his hands. If Antonia had been right and Riddle was Dark, he might’ve had something to do with her disappearance. And if he’s with Stateira, perhaps she knew something…

He picked his head up, reached over, and opened the drawer of his desk. The typed note was lying on top of a family photo he’d tucked away after his first row with Stateira. _You are in danger if you continue the DA._ Was that Riddle warning him, or her? 

Only one thing was certain: he could not bring this to the attention of the DA or Merrythought. They were already too distressed over Antonia and the other Auror. But if they turned out to be related, the guilt would eat him. 

Still conflicted but knowing he had to do something, Hollis took a seat at his desk, took out a quill and parchment, and began to write. 

_Dear Edwina…_

 

 _Breathe,_ Edwina told herself as she clutched the letter tightly, the parchment softening in her clammy hands. The words drilled into her head like a wasp stuck in her ear: 

_I suspect my sister and Professor Riddle are responsible for Antonia’s and Lysandra’s disappearances._

They were too mature, too heavy in a 14-year-old boy’s clumsy script. The whole letter had a detached feel to it, as if Hollis was describing a Quidditch game at Hogwarts. Edwina supposed he was in a bit of a shock. 

_One of them has written me a typed letter telling me to halt the DA. It’s not safe for us, Edwina, so do not reassure me._

This was it: Edwina could no longer ignore the writing on the wall. Stateira was the link between Hogwarts and the Auror Office, both of where witches were starting to vanish without a trace. Antonia had suspected Riddle, but Edwina had only brushed her off. No more of that—now it was time to dig. 

With resolve, she burned the letter and headed to London. Unfortunately, as soon as she arrived at the Auror Office, that resolve had all but dissipated. 

Stateira had said she was safe, but Stateira had just passed her psych evaluation with the toughest official of the Magical Law Enforcement. If she really was practicing Dark Magic, she was clearly no novice to deception. After a long day of only seeing her in passing, Edwina caught up with her after Apprehension and Detainment. 

“Let’s go for tea, shall we?” 

Surprised, the other girl turned to Edwina, raising a brow. There was nothing on her face except exhaustion. Her confidence seemed to be slowly draining as the air grew colder. 

“Alright,” she said dully. 

Once out of the Ministry, Edwina Apparated them to a small tea shop on the outskirts of Appleton, the largest town near Ottery St. Catchpole. Since it was nearly half-past six, the stragglers of the five o’clock rush were gathering to leave. Next to the counter, a handsome wizard with slicked-back chestnut brown hair and moss-green robes was charming the witch behind the counter, a giggly blonde with a red-checkered apron. 

“Let’s sit in the back,” Edwina said quietly. “That bloke reminds me uncomfortably of Arnold.”

Stateira let out a half-hearted chuckle and followed Edwina to the last table next to a window facing a bare, dry garden. As they reached for the teacups, they filled with earl grey tea. 

“I’ve heard you’re going steady with Tom Riddle. Long time coming, yes?” 

The other nodded, smiling wanly. “From whom did you hear that?” She spoke to the table. 

“Abraxas Malfoy,” was the first name to pop in Edwina’s mind. “I, erm, heard him in the elevator discussing it with—Alphard Black.” She groaned inwardly; Stateira would not even need to use her Legilimency to detect the lie. 

However, she didn’t seem to care either way. Her eyes were on the brown, brittle shrubs outside the window. Her shoulders were slightly slumped, as if sitting straight wasn’t worth the bother anymore. 

Edwina placed a hand on hers. “Stateira, is everything alright?”

“Of course it is.” Stateira nodded and plastered on a hollow smile, still looking out the window. 

“Is Riddle…treating you alright?”

“Yes…” The word came out slowly as Stateira finally made eye contact with Edwina. 

“He’s not—he’s not…involved with anything?” 

Stateira’s face was kept still, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Nothing outside the usual.”

Edwina leaned in, and before she could lose her nerve, she swallowed hard and whispered, “Anything…Dark?”

There was a sharp intake of breath as Stateira shook her head dismissively. “That is an absurd question, Edwina. He is a _professor_ at Hogwarts.”

Expecting Legilimency, Edwina held Stateira’s eyes and brought up her walls. However, nothing pushed against them, and Stateira looked away again. “I’ve got to get back to London.”

“Stateira, listen to me,” Edwina whispered, clasping her hand tighter. “Hollis wrote to me and said—”

“Hollis knows nothing,” Stateira hissed, pulling her hand free and grabbing the front of Edwina’s robes. “You know _nothing,_ Edwina, do you understand me?” 

Without waiting for a response, the girl pushed her away and dashed out, her robes billowing behind her. Edwina hurriedly followed, catching her around the side of the building just as she was Disapparating. 

They landed in a dim, ornately-decorated hallway with a chandelier, but as soon as Edwina blinked, Stateira had snatched her sleeve and Disapparated again. 

Now they stood on a rocky shore near the London Bridge. Car horns blared above them as a group of ragged-clothed muggle boys passed by on the nearby pavement, hooting drunkenly at them. “Oi, ladies!” one called. “Come and pass some time with us, eh?” 

Ignoring them, Stateira pulled Edwina roughly forward, their faces inches apart. In the glow of the moon and streetlights, Edwina could see that she was glowering, but the hand that gripped her robes was trembling. 

“I implore you to stay out of my affairs,” Stateira said firmly before releasing her. “Leave me alone or you’ll be sorry, Edwina.” Casting her another glare, she turned away toward the river. 

“Stateira, please, I can help you!” Edwina cried desperately, clinging to her arm. “Please, we can sort this out together!”

“No…”

“You haven’t got to go this way; let me—”

“No!” 

Stateira’s face sank into her hands as she fell to her knees, unconcerned about the mud soaking through her white hose. Her breaths came out quick and heavy, and Edwina realized she was crying. 

“Stateira…” Edwina placed a hand on her shoulder, but Stateira pushed it away. 

“Don’t,” she snapped, no longer crying, but her voice was murky, weak. 

Edwina, unable to come up with any other idea, disregarded Stateira’s vicious request and wrapped her arms around her like she did so often with Callista. Unlike Callista, Stateira did not bury her face into Edwina’s shoulder or neck, but she didn’t move away, either. The two girls knelt awkwardly and silently for another minute before Stateira stood up. Edwina followed suit and noticed the other had taken out her wand. 

“Sorry, love,” she said flatly as she pointed it between Edwina’s eyes. Before Edwina could even react, a whispered word and blazing blue light filled the air. It stung her eyes, burning them, filling her entire skull…

CRACK! 

A minute or two later, Edwina woke with a start, rubbing her temples. Her head ached and her eyelids dragged over her dry eyeballs. With horror and disgust, she realized she was lying on a muddy riverbank under the London Bridge. How on Earth had she gotten there? Had she taken a walk after leaving the Ministry to clear her head? Yes, she must’ve…and then she fainted…her schedule was rather full; it wasn’t such a surprise that she’d fall into a haze. 

“I’ve got to get more sleep,” she muttered to herself. It seemed as if she’d been slowly losing her mind after Antonia’s disappearance. She shouldn’t worry so much, though. Stateira had said they were safe—perhaps she was right. 

Best not to dwell, Edwina told herself as she Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole. There was an unsettling in her stomach, but hopefully a long soak in the tub would help ease it. 

 

~**~ ~**~

Heavy, weary: two words that described Stateira’s state of being. She shouldn’t feel like this; she should be elated. Lord Voldemort rewarded her often by sending letters with sweet words signed by T.M. Riddle. She was moving up the ranks at the Ministry and in the Knights simultaneously. Her plans were coming to fruition, yet she was weighed down by an unseen force. 

Occlumency had become her default. In preparation for the second psych evaluation, she’d learned how to let specific memories slide down a deep, narrow tunnel to the dark recesses of her mind. It had been effective: the official saw nothing and welcomed her as a Junior Auror. Her first half of Training was complete. 

Junior Auror, right-hand Knight. Everything she’d wished to be, and yet her insides were constantly churning as she held her mind in a constant state of blankness. 

Her recent dealing with Edwina and news about Hollis were nudged down the black hole as well, and not just from the Ministry. Stateira knew she was playing a dangerous game hiding anything from Lord Voldemort, and she couldn’t consciously come up with a good reason to protect Edwina other than that she just plain wanted to. Despite Edwina coming dangerously close to Stateira’s true motives, she didn’t want any harm to come to her. 

The Dark Lord hadn’t found anything in her mind yet, but he hadn’t necessarily been around enough to probe her mind. They’d only spent time together once, after the lone meeting in the past six months. He had to maintain his position at Hogwarts, he said. The second meeting of the season was just about to begin. 

Stateira was in her usual seat at his right. Across from her sat newly-promoted Abraxas Malfoy. 

“I will be leaving for a bit,” the Dark Lord said slowly and quietly as they all looked at their hands, ears perking up. “For about six months to a year. I trust you all to carry out your tasks and maintain order while I’m gone. When I return, I will be stronger than ever…so I suggest you all behave as if I’m still here in command.”

“Yes, my Lord,” they all mumbled in various length and volume. A year without the Dark Lord? Stateira should’ve had a stronger reaction, but she felt next to nothing. The blank wall prevented her from taking anything deeper than face-value. 

After dismissal, the Dark Lord requested Lestrange and Avery to stay behind. With a slight heaviness in her heart at the thought of not seeing him for a year, Stateira rose from the table and followed Yaxley out of the dining hall. 

“Stateira, please wait upstairs.”

She wanted to turn back and glance at him, but he was already addressing Lestrange. With a nod, she continued out, closing the door behind her. 

Stateira would miss him, yes, but if she was completely honest, she felt more relieved than anything else. She was a bit afraid of him. Not exactly untrusting, but still afraid. The image of his glaring red eyes made her heart race. As she sat on the bed, wiping her sweaty palms on her robe, she attempted to clear her mind again. It took a moment to succeed, but nonetheless, the wall came up. Then a loud CRACK as he Apparated right in front of her set her Occlumency back to square one. 

He was smiling at her, but there was no warmth in it. “Did you really think I’d leave my best Knight without a proper good-bye?” 

“No, my Lord,” she answered uncertainly, as she really couldn’t predict anything he would or wouldn’t do anymore. There was a sort of underlying cruelty about him, a detachment at best, even now as he stroked her cheek. 

“I will surely miss you, darling,” he said softly as he gazed down at her. “I can count of you to wait for my return, yes?” 

“Of course, my Lord.”

She closed her eyes as his cold fingers pushed back her hair, loosening the curls and sending tingles down her spine. Although it was supremely relaxing, her heartbeat did not slow. 

“I’ve got a task for you. I know you will carry it out efficiently, just like you did with Longbottom.”

At that, Stateira could guess quickly that the task involved murder. Her eyes snapped open and met his, the blank wall starting to crack. 

“Your brother suspects us. I’ve taken care of Merrythought, but I cannot be sure who else he might have told. No matter, as I won’t be around to suspect any longer. However, we must destroy this obstacle before it’s built.”

She lowered her eyes, the air suddenly hot and thick. “You want me to kill Hollis.” Her voice was hollow, almost disinterested, in contrast to the blossoming ache spreading through her. 

“Unless you’ve got another idea?” 

“I can modify his memory, my Lord,” Stateira said desperately, standing and grasping his hand, begging him to reconsider. “He won’t remember—”

He shook his head firmly. “That won’t work. His belief system is already established. It’s only a matter of time before he comes to the same conclusion. Memory Charms aren’t infallible, unless you permanently wipe his mind, in which case he’ll land in St. Mungo’s, unable to live a normal life. So you decide, Stateira, which is better?”

She did not know. Merlin, she didn’t know. Would death be better than a life at St. Mungo’s, unable to recall your own name? Neither option was fair—he was only 14, a child. Yet if they allowed him to live unaltered…

Abandoning Occlumency altogether, Stateira’s face sank into her hands as she turned away. She knew the Dark Lord would be aggravated, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her task was to get rid of Hollis, her only brother left… She could not do it. She couldn’t agree. Tears leaked through her fingers as she pressed against the windowsill. She had walked over to the window, away, not wanting him to see her reaction even though it was painfully obvious. 

“Stateira…” He was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her toward him, “Come, come here…”

Now crying openly, she allowed him to lead her to the bed and pull her on his lap. He held her as she cried in her hands, just like Edwina had held her, but it was not safe to think of Edwina. No one was safe… 

“I understand it is difficult for you to think of doing such a thing to your family, but he no longer considers you and Alexander part of his family. He has denounced you both. He is the weakest one.”

Against her will, Stateira shook her head. Calpurnia was weaker, but she couldn't kill her, either. 

“Your mother is weak because your father left her,” he whispered in her ear as he stroked her hair. “My mother suffered from the same thing. That’s why she allowed herself to die. But we can help your mother. We can get her a Healer that will come to her house and take care of her.”

Private Healers cost a fortune that the McElroy family wouldn’t ever see. The only other alternatives were taking Calpurnia to St. Mungo’s, bringing further shame to the Traverses, or what they’d been doing for the past decade—watching her suffer. This was the trade-off: Stateira could kill her brother for a chance for her mother to be healthy again, back to the way she was. Her mouth opened, ready to give a “yes” but the word refused to budge from her throat. 

“You’ve got time to decide, darling. About a year.”

Stateira knew she didn’t have a choice. She had been blindly in love, but she was no fool. If the Dark Lord wanted Hollis to be dead, he would die, by her hand or someone else’s. 

He’d pulled away and reached inside his robes as she seized the handkerchief from the nightstand to wipe her cheeks. He extracted what appeared to be a gold chain. 

“Take this.”

Slowly, Stateira held out her hand and he dropped the chain into her outstretched palm. Attached to the chain was a heavy gold locket with a serpentine S in the middle made of green emeralds. Temporarily forgetting the circumstance, she held it up closer and studied it with awe. 

“This was passed all the way down from Salazar Slytherin himself,” the Dark Lord was saying quietly. “It was my mother’s.”

With her other hand, Stateira traced the S with her fingertips. The locket was beautiful, and she could sense that she was holding an invaluable piece of history. “It’s wonderful, my Lord.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and gently nudged her. “Stand up and let me put it on for you.”

She obeyed, giving him the locket and turning toward the window. A moment later, his cold fingers were gathering her hair to the side, giving her the chills. She reached back and held her hair as he draped the chain around her neck. Once he clasped it and let it go, the locket slid down her chest. She’d expected it to be cold, but it was nearly as warm as the skin it laid upon. There seemed to be a slight pulsing inside, and she reached up to touch it again. 

“Wear it at all times, and it will guide you,” the Dark Lord said from behind her. Stateira started, nearly forgetting he was there, and nodded.

“I’ve placed a piece of myself inside of it,” he continued. “There is no one I trust more than you to keep it safe.” He held her around the waist and pressed his lips against her neck, giving her more tingles. 

“Th—thank you, my Lord.” Stateira’s voice was raspy from non-use. She felt as if she was in a trance or under hypnotism, having a hallucination. Even Dorea’s room itself looked surreal, blurred by waves of heat coming from the fireplace. 

“I can tell you’re a bit overwhelmed, darling.” 

Before she could answer, he turned her around, leaned in, and kissed her softly on the mouth, as if she would break any moment. But Stateira was not feeling overwhelmed, nothing at all, simply numb. 

“That’s why you’ve got a whole year to carry out your task. And when I return and see that it has been done, I will reward you beyond your grandest dream. I will marry you and we can produce an heir to carry on Slytherin’s bloodline. Wouldn’t you like that, darling?” 

Tears welled up in her eyes again as she attempted to turn away, but he held her face, gazing at her intently. She _did_ want to marry him and bear his child eventually. On how many scraps of parchment had she’d doodled _Stateira Riddle_ , practicing what she’d hoped would be her signature one day?

“I wish for this, my beautiful girl,” he told her. “I hope to have you by my side as I rise to power.”

He waited until she finished dabbing her face with the handkerchief before kissing her again, longer and harder. She reciprocated, mind blank, eyes dry. The Dark Lord stepped away, bringing her hand up and kissing it. “Goodbye, Stateira.”

“Goodbye, my Lord,” she replied, her throat dry and scratchy, but it was too late; he’d already Disapparated. “I love you,” she said into the hazy air. 

Her muscles were locked. She couldn’t move, nor did she particularly want to. Fatigue tugged at her eyes, but she remained standing, processing what the Dark Lord had just told her. Against her chest, the locket ticked on, as if a tiny heart was enclosed between the gold, beating in rhythm with her own. 

~**~ ~**~


	14. Spring 1951

Stateira did as she was told, wearing the locket at all times except for at the Ministry. No one would be able to trace it to the Dark Lord, but she was not about to risk it, especially after the fiasco with Edwina. 

The girl gave her a look out of the side of her eye on occasion, but a delve into her mind had confirmed the Memory Charm was still holding strong. However, like the Dark Lord had alluded to, the charm only wiped memories, not intuitive hunches. Edwina suspected Stateira of something but could not prove what. Would Edwina feel a rush of clarity if it ever wore off? 

The two witches stood across the table in the Record Room from each other, each avoiding eye contact. The last two Trainee Aurors standing—Achilles Longbottom, distraught, had taken an indeterminate leave of absence. 

Edwina’s face was drawn and pale, her hair lank and un-styled. Her shoulders were hunched, as if the air was too heavy. Stateira knew that feeling well. The weight of the Dark Lord’s task was crushing her. 

“Do you mind giving these to Brown?” Edwina asked dully, startling Stateira. She took the two grey folders from her and nodded. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Stateira muttered as they both left the room, walking side-by-side awkwardly. Luckily, Rachel’s office was much closer than Brown’s, so Edwina turned in there and Stateira was relieved of her presence. 

After another excruciating seven hours, Stateira was free of Training, and since it was Friday, she didn’t have class. It was still terribly cold even for March, so she planned on spending the weekend between silk sheets, alone. 

In the elevator, she bumped into someone she hadn’t seen outside of Knight meetings in a while: Abraxas Malfoy. 

“Hello there, Stateira,” he greeted warmly. “Nice to see you!”

“Hello, Abraxas,” she replied. “Congratulations on your engagement.” He’d recently proposed to Beryl Fawley, hosting a lavish engagement party at his manor that Stateira had skipped out on. 

Still smooth and handsome, Malfoy winked at her, seemingly unbothered by her unexplained absence at the party. “Thank you, although she was not my first choice.”

Stateira fake-chuckled shortly, unsure how to respond to his blatant honesty. 

“You’re going to Grimmauld Place, yes? Shall I escort you? I’m going there myself.”

“Er, alright,” Stateira said, since she didn’t care either way. “What do you plan on doing there?” The question was posed to be polite, since she wasn’t concerned about that, either. All she wanted to do was get home to the locket. 

“I’ve got to speak to Cygnus about something.” As they walked through the Atrium, Malfoy took her hand, which made her slightly uncomfortable. She was known as Professor Riddle’s girl now, and that was how she wanted to stay forever. 

Once in the Alley of Disapparition—as it was known to Ministry workers—next to the building, they Apparated together to Number 12. 

Stateira had barely gotten herself together when Malfoy grabbed her around the waist and bent close to her ear. “Come upstairs with me.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously. 

He raised a pale eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious why, sweetheart?” 

She frowned at him. Behind him, a normally sour-faced portrait was listening eagerly. “Abraxas, you’re about to be wed to Beryl, and you already know for whom I save myself.” 

“Do you see him or Beryl here?” he asked impatiently, tugging at her wrist. “Come on.”

Stateira glared at him and he let go. Then he tried a different approach: “You know, darling, I still think of our kiss in sixth year. It was the nicest I’ve had.”

“I’m not your darling,” she said coolly, stepping away, although there was a part of her deep in some abyss that was quite flattered. Abraxas Malfoy was second in power only to the Dark Lord. Stateira had a specific type of wizard. 

She looked into his grey eyes, biting her lip, and just then, Cygnus appeared out of nowhere, seemingly, glaring at the pair of them. 

“What are you two doing?” 

“Nothing,” Malfoy said smoothly, turning away from Stateira. “Come, Cygnus, I need a word with you.” Without looking at either of them, he strode into the parlor like he owned Number 12. A look of annoyance crossed Cygnus’ face; he clearly disliked being commanded by his competition. 

Stateira was halfway up the stairs before they left the hall, burning with a sudden rush of desire. Malfoy’s attention had set it off somehow, but of course, she would not think of him but the Dark Lord. 

Out of pure habit, she tossed her bag on the floor in front of the wardrobe, grabbed the locket, and slipped it on. After throwing herself on the bed, she plunged a hand up her skirt, yanking down her knickers. _Naughty girl_ , she could hear in the Dark Lord’s voice as little cries escaped her bit lips. 

She lie in a haze, trying to catch her breath. The Dark Lord’s voice was still in her head even though she’d finished, her right hand wet and sticky. _My, my darling, you miss me already, yes?_

 _Yes_ , she answered back silently, hesitantly. 

_I suppose I should’ve taken you to bed before leaving. You’ll be the first I return to when I come back to England._

_You’re…you’re in my head, my Lord?_

A chuckle came from indeed inside her head, and then a response: _What did I tell you about the locket, darling?_

_It…it has a part of you inside…_

_I told you I would guide you,_ the voice answered. 

 

Alphard was summarily kicked out upon the arrival of his niece, Bellatrix. Druella had given him an hour to gather his belongings, and he ended up in Lucretia’s and Ignatius’ house by the sea. “Stay as long as you want,” they assured him as he decided his next move. 

He had enough money to buy a nice place wherever he liked, but he found he rather enjoyed the sea. It was quite calm, not at all like London. Best of all, no one in his family other than Lucretia lived in the vicinity. 

Ignatius had told Lucretia and Alphard that Riddle had left England to travel abroad. What Alphard did not know was for how long. Regardless, he hoped Cygnus would be less angry and tense, but it was just the opposite. 

The birth of Bellatrix brought even more bitterness between him and Druella, and he was constantly drinking. Alphard had been having a hard time tolerating the constant fighting. The only one at Number 12 who seemed unaffected by any of it—the screaming, the Dark Lord’s leave, Bellatrix—was Stateira. She was lost in her own world, locked in Aunt Dorea’s room when she was not at the Ministry. 

“What are you thinking about, cousin?” Lucretia asked, smiling across the table at him. On their plates, there was shepherd’s pie, made by her. Even though Irma and Pollux had begrudgingly offered to buy her a house-elf, Lucretia declined, for she thoroughly enjoyed cooking. She even hummed to old songs while she did it. 

It was safe here, though Lucretia and Ignatius hadn’t an idea to what extent. They still wondered whether the Dark Lord was around, and Alphard could neither confirm nor deny it. That involved explaining himself and implicating Cygnus and Orion. 

“Nothing,” Alphard lied. “Only work tasks.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’re always thinking about work.”

After supper, he decided to take a walk to the sea, rolling up his trousers and trodding through the sand barefoot. The air was cold and windy but also fresh and salty, which Alphard’s lungs really needed. 

The more time he spent away from London, the less stifled he felt. For the first time since before finishing Hogwarts, he felt a slight marble of hope rolling around his insides. He knew the Dark Lord could appear and snatch it away at any moment, but still it persisted.

~**~ ~**~

Had the Auror Office not been a chaotic mess, Stateira’s week-long sick leave may have been frowned upon. However, for Edward Brown, Rachel Strickland, and their higher-ups at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, her absence was a blessing. They were down to one Trainee—Edwina—and they barely had time for her.

Dizzy and ill, Stateira had taken to bed, curled up with the locket. The Dark Lord’s voice lulled her with sweet words and reassurances. 

_Rest up, darling, regain your strength. You are such a strong, capable witch. This is temporary._

The locket thought she was grieving over the Dark Lord’s leave. She might have been, but she didn’t let down the wall in her mind enough to ponder it. 

Surprisingly, he did not tear through her mind or even push against the wall, only skimming the surface. He also did not mention Hollis, and he nudged her off the subject when it arose. 

That was not often lately. Stateira was having trouble forming a coherent thought. It was quite a battle keeping her eyes open, let alone her mind so clear. Her body was weak and achy, her breaths shallow. The worst ache was in her head, and no silencing charm was strong enough to block out the rest of the house. 

Alphard was gone, the lucky bastard, and the rest of the Blacks screamed at each other around the clock. Walburga had somewhere down the line decided she hated Druella, and the two women’s roars filled the corridors. Cygnus and Orion came home from work and joined the chorus after an hour of peace. The schedule was the same every day Stateira spent bedridden. 

And throughout it all, that blasted baby howled and screeched as if someone was twisting her neck. She had a wet nurse during the day, which somewhat lessened the crying. Unfortunately, the nurse left in the late afternoon, and after that, the wails went unanswered. 

_Poor baby Bellatrix,_ Stateira had thought for the first few days. _She just needs attention,_ but the thought of rising from the bed was unbearable. She’d learn eventually, right? Yet still she wailed the whole week, and by then, Stateira only wished for her to shut up. 

_If I was there, I’d hold you like the last time. Would you like that, darling?_

“Yes,” she sighed out loud. Day five, and she was driving her forehead into the mattress, head pounding. 

_They must have some potion in that house. Ask them for some. I told them they are to make you as comfortable and happy as possible, and I’ll know if they don’t._

“Kreacher,” Stateira called half-heartedly, knowing the elf wouldn’t hear her over the din. 

_It’s fine, my Lord,_ she told the locket. _I only need sleep to feel better._

 _Your wish is my command, darling._ A pleasant sound like ocean waves filled her ears, as a warm tingle spread through her limbs. At once, her eyelids grew heavy and sank down as the baby’s cries finally faded. 

About a minute later, Stateira drifted off into a sea of blackness. Then, slowly, a colorless image came into focus: Hogwarts grounds, more specifically, the shore of the Black Lake.

The sun was shining, but since the scene was devoid of color, the sky was simply one sheet of glaring white. The lake and surrounding trees were dark in comparison, the Forbidden Forest as stark as black ink blots on a crisp, white handkerchief. 

Stateira was walking along the shore, but she couldn’t feel the slimy rocks between her feet. The air was silent except for a faint humming coming from somewhere, perhaps from beneath the lake’s surface.

“Stateira.” The word was whispered in her ear, but there was no one around her. Then she saw it: the outline of a tall, slightly chubby female figure. 

Antonia Longbottom was materializing before Stateira’s eyes, but she did not go all the way to the solid phase. She resembled Myrtle Warren, her skin pale and slightly clear. 

“Did you really think,” Antonia’s ghost hissed, “that I wouldn’t come back to haunt my murderer? That you could stop the DA? That I would leave willingly before I ensure that you and Riddle burn in hell?”

As if there was a trace on his name, Riddle, in Hogwarts robes, appeared next to them, reaching for Stateira. Her mind was recording the events but not processing them. 

“What’s the matter, are you afraid of death, Longbottom?” he asked, but the ghost’s form had started to change. Slightly taller and much thinner, she now had Stateira’s longer hair and wider eyes. 

“Who…?” Stateira breathed, unable to register that she was looking at a transparent, distorted version of herself. 

“I am you, obviously,” the ghost said in the cutting voice she’d often used toward other students at Hogwarts. “I’m the piece of your soul you’ve ripped away.”

Someone was tugging on her shoulder—Riddle, who she’d completely forgotten about. “Let’s go, darling…” 

Ignoring him, Stateira squinted at the ghost, desperately trying to understand. “My soul? How…?” 

“By murder, of course,” replied the ghost, a sardonic smile on her face. “Murder rips the soul.” 

_“Stateira!”_ Riddle barked, yanking her toward him. 

The ghost turned to him. “Oh! Another soul fragment. How romantic.”

Frowning in confusion and horror, Stateira watched the girl open her mouth and a terrible, piercing screech burst out, shooting through her eardrums. She squeezed her eyes shut, covering her ears and crying out in pain…

She opened her eyes and realized she was in bed, sweaty and with labored breathing from thrashing about. She pawed at the locket, which had been tangled up in her hair and digging into her neck. 

The wail continued—Bellatrix was still crying in the next room. Tears poured out of Stateira’s eyes and soaked the hair near her temples. 

_It’s alright, darling, it was just a bad dream,_ the locket soothed. _You’ve got quite an impressive imagination._

 _What if she does come back to haunt me?_ Her heart was racing with panic. _She’s extremely—_

_She is dead, Stateira. Enough of this._

_How can you be so sure?_ Her eyes welled with tears again. Bellatrix’s howls increased an octave with every passing minute. Somewhere down the stairs, she could hear Cygnus yelling, but the words were muffled. 

_My darling, please relax and think rationally, will you? You know we will keep her gone._

_I can’t, I can’t!_

The locket was still speaking softly, trying to calm her, but Stateira wasn’t listening. For the first time in three days, she sat straight up, pulled the damp, musky sheets off her legs, and climbed out of bed. Her feet and ankles cracked, sending jolts of pain up her legs, but this went ignored. Stomping down the hall and throwing open the door to Alphard’s old room, Stateira made a beeline for the crib. 

Bellatrix was sitting wild-eyed as her open mouth spewed out high, drawn-out cries. Shaking with anxiety and rage, Stateira reached down, grabbed the baby under her arms, and pulled her to her chest. 

“Where in the world can my lover be?” she sang, hissing out the lyrics and bouncing the baby jerkily in her arms. “Where in the world is there someone for me?” 

Bellatrix immediately shut up and turned her wide eyes on Stateira’s face, silently surveying her. She’d inherited Cygnus’ dark hair and eyes along with Druella’s aristocratic nose and full lips. Now she was just a fat-cheeked baby, but one day Bellatrix Black would be a stunning lady. If her relatives didn’t suffocate her first. 

“He may be standing on a lonely street,” Stateira crooned on, her voice soft and tumbling now, “but tell me how will he happen to meet?” She remembered Calpurnia singing the same song to her brother when he was little. 

The baby sagged against her, burying her face into Stateira’s chest. Sliding the locket over her shoulder out of Bellatrix’s reach, Stateira sang quietly and paced the room with her. 

A moment passed before Cygnus appeared in the doorway, still in his Ministry robes, startling her. He usually fell asleep on his armchair in the parlor, aided by firewhiskey. When he registered the scene, the irate, sleepy expression vanished, and he leaned against the doorframe, watching her. 

Bellatrix had fallen asleep, but Stateira didn’t want to set her down and risk waking her, so she continued to pace, feeling his eyes on her. 

“You’d be a good mum,” he finally said before turning and disappearing from view. 

Stateira shook her head as the locket, who had fallen silent to observe, spoke again. _He’s right. That’s why out of anyone, you are best to carry Slytherin’s heir._

She stopped short—she realized something, but she couldn’t think of it any further. She bent over and carefully placed Bellatrix back in the crib, holding her silky-haired head steady. Her arm was tingling from the weight, and her vision was spinning from the abundance of sudden activity. 

Pulling the locket off, Stateira crept back to Dorea’s room, tossed it on her bed, and threw her robe on. Her destination was Druella’s bathroom, which, unfortunately, required her to go through her bedroom. 

Luckily, Druella was face-down, fast asleep—most likely drunk, too—and Cygnus absent. Stateira tiptoed to the bathroom, pulled open the mirrored door above the sink, and ran her hand over the potion bottles. She was searching for a specific one, hoping hard that it—there it was. She seized the neck of the bottle and dashed to her own bathroom. 

Ten minutes later, Stateira’s eyes were glued to the bottle, waiting for the clear liquid to change color while hoping hard it didn’t. Then she blinked and it was right red: positive. 

“Oh, Merlin,” she moaned, clutching the sink and staving off tears. “Oh, no. Oh, Merlin…”

Yet another secret to add to the collection. She wiped her eyes and stood rigidly, determined not to break. Numbly, she pointed her wand at the bottle. _“Evanesco.”_

Once it had vanished, Stateira went back to Dorea’s room, picked up the locket, slipped it on, and lie down, depleted of energy. 

_Feeling better now, darling?_

She nodded, suppressing the instinctual _no_ pushing against the wall. The upside of the constant grueling exercise of Occlumency was that she’d mastered an extreme measure of self-control. The time for acting on any type of impulse, even completing a dangerous thought, had passed. 

 

_16 May 1951_  
_Dear Stateira,_

_I’m writing to let you know that Mum has been taken to St. Mungo’s. Since I’m at Hogwarts, Gran is there with her alone. So if you care anything at all about our family, I suggest you accompany her. Mum’s heart has begun to slow. It’s not looking good._

_Hollis_

“Damn it!” Stateira swore. It was her first day back at the Ministry, but apparently, her mother was on the brink of death. 

_What should I do?_

_Go to the office and explain the situation,_ the locket advised. _Then go see her if permitted. Don’t be too long. I’ve gotten quite used to you here with me around the clock._

_What if she dies while I’m at the Ministry?_

_If she’s going to die, it matters not if you’re there._

She let out a tired sigh. _You’re right, my Lord. Goodbye._ Carefully, she pulled off the locket and placed it in a box under her bed. Her neck instantly felt lighter and the caffeine from her tea was finally kicking in. 

The Ministry was business as usual—doom and gloom, never-ending paperwork, and Edwina’s side-eyed glances. They barely registered to Stateira anymore. She kept meaning to tell Brown she had a family emergency, but every time she walked to his office, she turned around right before she was about to knock. 

Five o’clock rolled around, and she skipped Apprehension and Detainment to take the Floo Network to St. Mungo’s. At the reception desk, she was directed to the second floor, where she immediately bumped into Evangeline, daughter of the Hogsmeade shop-owner Francine Meeker. Evangeline had been a year or two ahead of Stateira at Hogwarts. 

“Oh, hello, Stateira!” she greeted warmly. “Nice to see you again!”

Stateira simply stared. She and Evangeline hadn’t been friendly, as one was a Slytherin and the other a Hufflepuff. However, Evangeline was a newly-licensed Healer, and so Stateira had an advantage. 

“Hello, Eva,” she replied. “I’m looking for my mother, Calpurnia Travers. Do you know in which room she is by any chance?” 

“Calpurnia Travers?” Evangeline repeated, frowning. “She’s gone already.”

At the stricken look on Stateira’s face, she reached out, wide-eyed, and grasped the girl’s shoulders. “Oh no, my dear, I mean discharged! Goodness gracious, I need to work on my vocabulary! I’ve only just been appointed, you see.”

“It’s alright,” Stateira gasped in relief, pressing a palm to her chest. “So she’s at home, then?”

Evangeline released her grip and patted her on the shoulder. “Yes, dear. We’ve got her heart beating at a normal pace, but she’ll need to take the prescribed potions every day for the rest of her life. Your gran and brother took her home.”

“My brother?” Stateira echoed stupidly. “Hollis?”

Of course it was Hollis; her other brother was dead. Evangeline smiled patiently and nodded. “He’s been excused from Hogwarts, I believe. Your mother has to be monitored very closely.” 

Stateira nodded, distracted. She knew she must visit the flat in Lambeth, but Hollis’ presence complicated things a bit. “Well, thank you, Eva. Hopefully we won’t be seeing each other soon.”

Evangeline chuckled; a Healer always appreciated some dry humor. “Good luck, Stateira!” she called as the other walked briskly to the elevator. 

As soon as she’d Apparated to the back of Irvington Alley, next to the fence and rubbish bin, she walked briskly to unit four, chickened out, and passed it by, heading to the street. She knew she should take off her Ministry robes, but it was chilly out and they acted as sort of a barrier from late-evening London. 

There was a courtyard near her flat on the next block, in which children played by day and old muggle drunks slept at night. Clutching her wand under her robe, Stateira chose the most secluded bench and sat, hugging her knees. Behind her, two muggle men were in the midst of an altercation. One threatened to get his “pistol” while the other smashed a bottle on the pavement. They were at least far enough away to ignore. 

How had Stateira gotten here, huddling on a dirty park bench? She had two options: go and see her mum, like she should, or go to Number 12 and put on the locket. The second was marginally more appealing, but she couldn’t will herself to Disapparate. 

She couldn’t see Hollis. If she saw him, she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to carry out her task. At the moment, she didn’t think she ever could. 

_Of course you can,_ a voice, her own, said inside her head. _You’re a murderer already. What’s the difference? You will marry the Dark Lord and give birth to his heir. Isn’t that what you want?_

 _No, lass,_ a long-dormant voice that resembled Grandma McElroy’s said. It had been so long since she’d heard it. _This is not you._

“It is me,” she whispered. “Murder splits the soul.”

There was no rebuttal, and Stateira recalled that horrifying dream about Antonia’s ghost and her own “piece of soul.”

The look-alike girl in the dream was echoing what she’d learned—she was a part of her. Professor Merrythought had told Stateira and the other fifth-years in her class that murder rips the soul. Was it damaged beyond repair? She could not bring Antonia back to life, although there were many moments when she wished she could. 

The second part of the dream was nagging at her even more, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Had it been because the girl looked exactly like her? The way she’d spoken to Riddle? No, not the way she spoke…rather, what she’d said…

_Oh! Another soul fragment._

How on Earth would Riddle’s soul be in her head? Shouldn’t it, even if it’s been broken, be in his? Stateira almost let out a nervous chuckle at the absurdity. Then she made the connection: his voice came through the locket…

_I’ve placed a piece of myself in there…_

Slowly, legs aching from the cold bench, Stateira stood up, glanced around for any alert muggles, and Apparated to Number 12. She knew she should put on the locket immediately, having been away from it for almost ten hours. However, she went directly to the dusty, infrequently-used library on the third floor. 

The Black family had to have a book or two on the Dark Arts. Moving as quietly as possible, Stateira climbed up the ladder, still shaking from the cold. The ladder slowly glided across the room as she read the spines from the top shelves. On the third row down, she found what she was looking for. 

_Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ was the title. It was thick, heavy, and had sharp black letters over a purple velvet background. Shaking from nerves this time, she set it on the table and flicked it open with her wand. 

She was expecting it to resist, to require some sort of Dark ritual, but it simply fluttered open to a seemingly perfect page, a chapter titled _Soul Magic_ , as if it was eager to share her secrets with her. 

 

_You’re a Horcrux._

Stateira lie on her bed later that night, trying to keep the words from escaping the wall, but she found that she no longer had the strength. 

At once, the locket tore at the wall, blasting it into pieces, and plunged straight to the recent memory of the Black library and _Secrets of the Darkest Art._ Luckily, he was so keen on that, all of the other hidden memories were bypassed, such as Edwina’s Memory Charm and the red potion. 

_Well, well, well…_

_You’re…immortal_ , she realized. _You’ve trapped your soul on Earth. Why? What are you afraid of?_

_What have I told you about poking around in my affairs?_

_The last time I did, it saved your tail,_ she pointed out before she could stop herself. 

He chuckled softly. _Fair point. Tell me, darling, what prompted you to look up soul magic? Of course I can simply flip through your mind now that the nice solid wall you’ve constructed against me is gone…but I prefer you to tell me._

_That dream…myself, or whomever that was, told me that murder rips the soul, and I wanted to know if there’s a way to mend it._

_Is there?_ He sounded bored, not curious of the answer in the least. 

_Yes, through remorse._

_Do you feel remorse for killing Longbottom?_

Down the hall, Bellatrix was starting to whimper. Stateira thought of retrieving her, but the room was too cold, the blanket cozy and warm. Lying on her chest, the locket ticked away, waiting for her answer. 

_I don’t know._

A fuzzy, pleasant feeling overtook her as the Dark Lord tried to placate her. _Stateira, darling, you needn’t feel remorse for doing the right thing. Longbottom was only a nuisance. We have enough muggle-lovers in our world._

Stateira kept quiet. Through the haze, she still felt uneasy. Bellatrix was crying in earnest now, but the wails were muffled and muted, as if she was underwater. 

_Remorse is for fools_ , the locket continued. _All of those feelings—sorrow, guilt, envy, love—they drag even the sharpest, most rational down._

_Love?_

_Yes, love._ There was a slight tone of impatience. _I’ve told you the story of my mother, yes? How she pined over that filthy muggle and lost her powers over such an unworthy reason? Dumbledore had tried to tell me love is stronger than magic, and look where that old fool is now. Around your neck is proof that I’m superior to him. I’ll never submit to death._

_What if someone destroys it?_

_I would hope you’d prevent that, darling, that’s why I gave it to you. But no matter—I’ve got backups._

_Like the diary._ She remembered how she’d held it, not wanting to release it. _And another?_

_Perhaps._

_So that’s what this is all about. Not purifying the race, not wizarding society. Only power and immortality._

_Only?_ The voice came out as a hiss. _And what’s most important to you, Stateira? Your weak, miserable family? Your little infatuation with Professor Riddle? Little dumb schoolgirl you are, ruled by your emotions._

Anger blossomed in her chest as her hand curled into a fist around the locket. She should’ve felt sad that the object of her love and devotion for the past four years felt nothing for her, but she only felt rage. Tears pricked her eyes as the pleasant haze evaporated at once. 

_So you have never loved me._

Sensing that she was about to take off the locket and hurl it, the voice switched tones. _I care for you, sure, but Lord Voldemort does not love._

_Why keep me around, then?_

_You’re an Auror,_ he said simply. _And you’re so very loyal, one of the best Knights I’ve got. The most beautiful and eager to please. So your little desires are useful after all._

Useful, but loved by no one. The realization could wither a witch away. She could hear the full force of Bellatrix’s shrieking and gasping, still too young to realize that her parents didn’t love her like they were supposed to. Like her mum had loved her, before her own realization hit. 

_You see? Love is for the weak. Your mother is of noble blood and look how magical she is now._

_Yet you had shed many a tear over yours_ , she replied savagely, recalling the memory in the Pensieve when a teenaged boy had collapsed in front of a gravestone. Everyone, magically gifted or muggle, had some type of weakness, and to deny it was useless. 

_Enough, Stateira. This conversation is absurd. Are you happy now that you’ve angered me, you silly little girl?_

“No,” she said out loud, sitting up. Before the locket could speak, she ducked her head, pulled it off, and dumped it on the nightstand. 

Walking briskly, she headed to Bellatrix’s room, not bothering to lighten her stomping footsteps. Let the stupid, mental Blacks holler at her. She was in the mood to hex the whole lot of them. 

_He’s never loved you, lass,_ her inner voice told her matter-of-factly as she hoisted the baby out of the crib. _You’re just a pawn, and he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you the moment you stop trying to please him._ Just like Antonia had said. 

“My, my, little Bella, you sure are in a right state.” Her voice came out cheerful and lilting in contrast to the churning storm inside of her. “No need to kick up such a fuss, sweetheart.”

At once, Bellatrix calmed, recognizing Stateira’s voice, her breaths still ragged and heavy. Her red-rimmed brown eyes met Stateira’s. 

“Yes, darling, it’s alright, you’re safe now.” _And so am I._

 _Secrets of the Darkest Arts,_ as evil as the book was, had comforted her: it had told her the soul was mendable, and that Horcruxes were confined to their containers. The sudden absence of the Dark Lord’s voice once she’d taken the locket off was evidence. Without the locket, he could not control her. 

“I shall not hurt you…” Stateira leaned in and Bellatrix immediately grabbed her hair and pressed a plump cheek against hers, trusting her. Stateira recalled the long nights spent in the flat with her baby brother in her arms, soothing him in a similar fashion. 

“And I shall not kill Hollis either,” she whispered in the baby’s ear, as if Bellatrix would remember the promise and hold her to it.

~**~ ~**~ 

_23 May 1951_  
 _Dear Stateira,_

 _Mum has passed on. Not sure if it matters to you or not, since all you seem to give a toss about is that Riddle, but now that he’s gone and left you, perhaps you’d like to attend your own mother’s funeral. It’s you who is always stressing the importance of family, but where have you been all this time? It is I who is missing classes and exams to take care of everything. Alexander was only out for himself and so are you._

_Anyway, the funeral will take place on Saturday at noon at St. Augustine’s. If you cannot gather enough grace to attend, I will no longer consider you my sister, and any loyalty to you I have will vanish. That will include refreshing Edwina’s memory against the charm you’ve placed on her._

_Hollis_

He did not expect her to show. Then again, he hadn’t expected his father to show either, but there was Lochlan McElroy in robes that probably cost more than the entire funeral. At least he had the decency to leave The Mug—Francesca behind. 

Gran did not speak. She stood stoically as the coffin lowered into the ground and doves encircled the scene. How does it feel to bury your own child? Hollis hoped to never find out. 

There were not many others, as many of the wizarding elite had severed ties with the Traverses after Alexander’s conviction. Near the head stone, a group of witches in black robes, Calpurnia’s schoolmates at Hogwarts, held lilies and wept. 

Hollis excused himself from his father to the bathroom, unable to listen to the chirping and weeping. The air should have been still; there should have been peace. 

He couldn’t cry. Perhaps he would later, or not until he was back at Hogwarts, alone in his dormitory and when it had finally sunk in that his family was now officially demolished. It was just him and Gran now and, although thankfully Gran had seemed to forget about it for the moment, she still thought him a blood traitor. 

As he left the building and walked back to the burial, a tall female figure dressed in black caught his eye. In disbelief, he stopped short and watched his sister approach, holding a tan leather suitcase. _She’s so beautiful,_ he thought despite his resentment toward her. A breeze blew her hair across her face. 

“Stateira!” Gran called suddenly, snapping out of the gloomy haze and trotting toward her. “I am happy to see you, although I am not pleased about your suitor.”

“Sorry?” Stateira asked, caught off guard. 

“You know to whom I am referring. I’ve heard you’re seeing what’s-his-name, that half-blood.” Gran, who wasn’t aware of anything going on outside of London, was apparently still under the impression that Riddle was a colleague of Stateira’s from Hogwarts. 

“As if our family wasn’t disgraced enough,” she continued in a hushed voice. “You couldn’t at least pick a pureblood to take your hand? I’ll have no part of any half-blood spawn in the Travers line.”

Stateira, keeping her face blank, didn’t respond, turning to Hollis instead. “Brother, may I have a quick word?” 

Before he could respond, she reached out her silk-gloved hand, grasped his, and pulled him away. Nearby, their father was reaching for her attention, but she ignored him, turning her head away as they passed. 

He followed her into the farthest corner of the cemetery, where tall weeds surrounded cracked, neglected stones. Beyond, the London street was clogged with noisy traffic. He wondered if he should be afraid, if she planned on Obliviating him or worse, but he couldn’t turn back. Above all else, even while suspecting her of killing Antonia, he _missed_ her. 

They stood face-to-face; he was as tall as she now, yet she seemed so much older, like their mother in his earlier memories. 

“Moving away?” he attempted to joke for a complete lack of anything to say, gesturing to the suitcase. 

She simply nodded and extended it to him. “Give this to Edwina. Tell her I’m sorry.”

Astonished, he took it and stared at her. Her eyes clouded and her lip trembled as she reached out and caressed his cheek. Then he blinked, and she’d rearranged her face back to blank. She turned away and began walking to the exit, leaving her brother gaping at her, holding the suitcase. The cars passed, the birds sang, the sun shone, and she was leaving. She looked back only once, and he saw that her face had crumpled, the façade dropped. 

 

As it turned out, there wasn’t a special, secret charm to get the suitcase open but just the hands of Edwina Boot. Hollis had made a fuss about not being able to open it, but Edwina simply unclicked the lock and pulled it apart—evidently, Stateira had placed an enchantment forbidding anyone else to do so. 

Inside was a stack of parchment and a potion jar filled halfway with shimmering silver fluid. Although she’d never seen anything like it before, she knew from Training that it was a jar of memories. Anytime it was involved in a case, protocol was to view it, write a report that was usually inadmissible in court, and send it to the Department of Mysteries to verify that it hadn’t been tampered with. 

Edwina set it aside on the desk and dove in the pile of parchment. The first page was seemingly irrelevant: a record page of a Marvolo Gaunt. The only interest that would evoke was that had been copied from the Record Room, which was forbidden. 

The next hit closer to home: the file of Tom Marvolo Riddle. So Marvolo Gaunt was related to him somehow, then. But still…?

On a regular, unofficial piece of parchment, there was only one sentence, written in Stateira’s loopy script:

_The residence of Tom Marvolo Riddle is at 403 Groton Road, flat three, Newham, London._

Although this raised more questions, a substantial one was answered. Riddle was guilty of something, and Stateira knew of it. Perhaps this address was a scene of a crime? A murder?

He and Lysandra had gone to Hogwarts together, she realized. They were Head Boy and Girl. One an Auror, the other…

The last page of the pile was blank except for one line near the bottom:

_Tom Marvolo Riddle = I am Lord Voldemort_

As a surge of burning acid filled her mouth, Edwina jumped to her feet and slammed the suitcase shut. She took a large gulp, grabbed the potion bottle, and dashed out of the office, tucking it up her sleeve on the way out. 

In the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, there was a door marked PENSIEVE; Lysandra had pointed it out to her once. Undoubtedly, someone would ask what a Junior Auror was doing there, but Edwina would simply say she’d been sent by Rachel. 

This place was even more of a mess than the Auror Office. Edwina was able to weave through the harassed-looking witches and wizards undetected. Wand authorization was required to enter the Pensieve Room, so she placed the tip of her wand on the tiny rubber circle next to the door handle. She knew she would be asked about it in the future, but this ordeal—or whatever it was—had taught Edwina to act first, think later. 

The room was very tiny, only slightly bigger than a wardrobe. A dim bulb cast a burnt orange glow on a tall, nightstand-like table with a stone basin. Edwina had seen a basin similar to this one somewhere, but she couldn’t recall where. She peered inside and saw runes carved into the stone. Then it came to her: Riddle’s office. That’s where she’d seen a Pensieve for the first time. 

Without further hesitation, she uncorked the bottle, poured the silvery substance into the basin, and leaned over, squinting. All she could see was the top of Stateira’s head. The girl was standing in what appeared to be a lavish manor house. 

More curious now than anxious, Edwina dunked her head in and slipped into spinning blackness. She landed next to Stateira, who paid her no attention. She was focused on a boy standing a few feet away, wand pointed at an older man in a high-backed sitting chair. Edwina recognized the boy as Riddle from his prefect days. 

The memory was slightly blurred, but eventually Edwina made out an elderly couple sitting on a sofa. Riddle ignored them, intent on the man on the chair, who looked very similar to him. 

“Too late for begging, Father,” Riddle said, raising his wand. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Edwina was spinning away into the blackness until she landed again next to Stateira. The girl stood in front of the Pensieve in Riddle’s office, tracing the runes with her finger. This memory was much clearer—Stateira’s own instead of Riddle’s. 

“Abraxas Malfoy and Icarus Yaxley say that the Dark Lord’s mission is to purge the wizarding world of all muggles and mudbloods,” Stateira said to the Pensieve. For a moment, Edwina thought she was talking to herself, but then she saw Riddle leaning on his desk behind her. “And you, erm, are not fond of them either, sir, so does that mean you support Lord Voldemort?” 

“Of course I do,” Riddle replied. “I am Lord Voldemort.”

Stateira’s jaw dropped as she turned to look at him. “Did—you’re—”

“The Dark Lord, yes.” 

The look on his face, that satisfied smirk, made Edwina seethe in anger. Her fists curled as she spun away… 

The next memory was even more repugnant: Stateira and Riddle were dancing in an unfamiliar flat. “I’ve only danced once before,” he told her, “with the Head Girl of 1945, Lysandra Bell.”

“Ooh, an Auror dancing with a Dark Lord?” Stateira, pink-cheeked and drunk, was looking at Riddle with such adoration, Edwina felt more acid creeping up her throat. Even after finding out he was the Dark Lord, Stateira still loved him. 

“…a book for little witches that came out in ’35,” she was saying. “My mum used to read it with me.”

“Well, Bell and I certainly weren’t lovers,” he told her. “I only tolerated her because of Head Duties.”

Similar to how I tolerated Alphard Black, Edwina thought as a popular song came on. Except Black wasn’t a monster like Riddle. 

Now the pair was dancing quietly, holding each other close like they were the only two in the world. Edwina moaned and sank to her knees, covering her face, wanting out. Mercifully, everything went black a second later. 

The next was quick: a group of black-robed wizards and one witch, Stateira, sat at a large table in a grand dining hall. At the head of the table was Riddle, but his face was obscured by a large black hood. 

“When I return, I will be stronger than ever,” he said. “So I suggest you all act as if I’m still here in command.”

Just when Edwina’s head had stopped spinning, she was pulled away again, landing in what seemed to be another room in the same lavish house. The room was spectacular: white wallpaper with painted pink and red roses, and silk-and-gold weaved white curtains over vast, floor-length windows. Stateira paced around a wooden crib in the center, holding a dark-haired baby in her arms. The baby looked at her in contentment, obviously familiar with her. 

“And I shall not kill Hollis either,” she whispered into the child’s ear. 

Edwina’s eyes stung with tears and she reached out despite knowing nothing was solid. She held her hand out even as she was pulled away again. 

Back in the Pensieve Room, which really should’ve been called the Pensieve Cupboard, Edwina tried to steady her breathing as she gathered the shimmering fluid back into the bottle. Her mind had processed what she’d just witnessed, but her feelings toward it was taking a bit longer to catch up. 

Sliding the bottle back up her sleeve, Edwina went back to the Auror Office, expression stiff and mind numb. 

“Edwina!” Brown called as she strode by Arnold’s desk. “Go retrieve the Mulciber file, will you? I need to check something out with his wand…”

“Sure,” she replied tonelessly, passing by without sparing him a glance. She didn’t go to her office, where Mulciber’s folder was, but to Stateira’s. 

Without turning on the light, Edwina shut the door behind her and made a beeline for the desk. The drawers were empty—she was gone. After two years of Training and making Junior Auror, Stateira McElroy had walked away from it all. What had been the wake-up call? 

Edwina sat down as an invisible crushing weight was forced upon her neck and shoulders. She’d trusted Stateira, even looked away so many times, and now even after all the harm she’d done, Edwina only felt sorrow. The girl had considered only the path laid out for her. 

Edwina set the bottle carefully on the desk, out of the way, ducked her head in her arms, and started to cry. She cried for the loss of her innocent friendship, her trust broken, but most of all, she cried for the next move she had to make. The pain of it seared through her chest, constricting her breath.

~**~ ~**~ 

Stateira’s well of tears had long run dry. She was dull and numb, standing in a muggle dress and clutching a stack of stapled-together papers, waiting patiently to board the ship.

Her neck felt lighter, absent of the locket. Before leaving Number 12 for the last time, she’d crept into Orion and Walburga’s room, where she’d never dared to go before, and headed straight toward the gold-encrusted vanity stationed below a large Venetian mirror. Avoiding her reflection, she opened a small, pearlescent box. It had only contained a bracelet, and there was quite a bit of room otherwise. Gingerly, Stateira lowered her hand, letting the locket slide down her fingers and into the box. Then she snapped it shut and returned to Dorea’s room to pack. 

“There you are, then, Walburga,” she’d muttered to herself, shoving skirts and blouses into her shoulder bag. “You wanted him so badly, so now you can have him.”

Also inside her bag was her wand, which hadn’t been used in over a week. Stateira had traveled to the western border by muggle means—trains, a bus, and her own two feet. She’d regretted wearing high heels, the only shoes she’d brought, but that seemed to be a fashion staple for muggle women. 

The queue steadily moved forward until at last, Stateira was in front of a uniformed guard, who held out his hands. 

“Papers, please.”

Stateira extended the stapled sheets to him. He leafed through them, his eyes scanning each page quickly. According to them, she was Anna Wozniak, a Polish university student who was being targeted by the Russian government for writing “anti-communist” propaganda. Stateira had no idea what a communist was nor what actually happened to Anna Wozniak, just that those papers had cost a fortune. 

The guard handed her back the papers and motioned her forward. “Go on.”

She did not thank him, too nervous to speak. He didn’t seem to expect her to, perhaps assuming she didn’t speak English. 

The ship was large, about as wide as the Hogwarts grounds from the castle to the lake. Stateira felt a slight wistful pang as she chose a seat in the back, next to a window facing the shore. If only she’d enjoyed Hogwarts for what it offered other than Professor Riddle, but there was no use lamenting about that now. 

“Excuse me,” an older man nearby said in a French accent. “Do you know what time the ship will leave?” 

“Sorry, no English,” she replied in what she hoped sounded like a Slavic accent. Since she was Anna Wozniak now, she had to sound Polish, except she’d never met a Polish person before and hadn’t an idea what they sounded like. 

The man wrinkled his nose slightly before addressing the woman on his other side, speaking rapidly in French. Stateira turned away from them and looked out the window. Everyone was on the ship, so it would be leaving shortly. Her eyes kept straying left to the dark green, choppy Atlantic Ocean. If she stared directly at it, a ripple of fear passed through her stomach; she’d never been so close to such a large body of water before. 

There was an indiscernible cry and something rumbled to life at the bottom of the ship, vibrating the floorboards under their feet. The couple next to Stateira clutched each other as a baby on a mother’s lap a few seats down started to wail. She was reminded ruefully of Bellatrix, picturing her lying in the crib, waiting for her. Stateira kept her eyes on the shore as it slowly moved away. 

About an hour later, people were feeling comfortable to move about the ship, climbing to the top and clutching the railings, looking out across the sea in fascination. The cool, salt-tinged wind blew the ladies’ perfectly-coiffed hair into their faces. 

Stateira slowly walked to the railing, fighting the churning acid creeping up her throat. At the last moment she lost her nerve, standing still. Something deep down in her abdomen fluttered, separate from the butterflies in her stomach. Her hands immediately flew to her midsection as her hair was thrown over her eyes. The dress was snug around the hips in waist, significantly more so than when she’d bought it two weeks prior. 

Pulling her hair from her face, she took a giant step forward and gripped the railing tightly. The way she saw it, she faced two very likely outcomes: one, she would be caught by the Ministry and sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss. This would have been less likely had she not given that suitcase to Hollis, but she owed Edwina that, and more. That did not mean that she was going to sit around and wait for the Ministry to catch her, however. 

The second, almost guaranteed outcome was that Lord Voldemort would find her and kill her. 

The third, which had a very minuscule chance of occurring, was that she blended in with these muggles, raised her baby in the United States without magic and got him safely to Ilvermorny, the wizarding school. This would obviously be the best-case scenario and Stateira didn’t have much faith in it, but she had to try. 

In all three options, she was going to be captured and killed eventually, and she was alright with that. She would’ve welcomed it then, if she wasn’t pregnant—it was certainly what she deserved. However, the baby complicated things a bit. She couldn’t give up that easily; she couldn’t be like Riddle’s mother. Perhaps, if the baby survived, he would grow up to be a ruthless Dark wizard. Perhaps it was his fate, being born from such a family history. 

Or perhaps not—not if she could help it.

~**~ ~**~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!<3
> 
> Lyrics are from "Where in the World" by Midge Williams (1939).


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